


Mahal's Script

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bilbo is frusterated, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Everyone is emotionally constipated, Everyone meddles alot for the greater good, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, No one really knows what is going on but they are certain Ori and Dwalin should be doing it, Nori and Bilbo 'help', One love bond, Oral Sex, Ori and Dwalin are stubborn assholes, Ori and Dwalin have shit to work out, Ori is a brave little shit, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Slash, Smut, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Thorin likes his hobbit but pretends he doesn't, dwarvish traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Valar work in mysterious ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: This is my second time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe and my first time trying the 'soul bond' trope in the Hobbit fandom. So, I greatly appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a hint of Bagginshield if you squint.
> 
> Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug'. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. This is also a 'soul-bond' fic. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, age difference, size difference. Timeline? What timeline? Dwarvish courting rituals/traditions/culture, slash and smut.

They were in the middle of negotiations, something to do with how to respond to a good will gesture sent from Dain, King of the Iron Hills, when he suddenly doubled over, gasping for breath. The argument faltered, spluttering to a halt around the table as his hands firmed around the edge, distantly aware that they were trembling as he wrenched himself to his feet.

A conflicting surge of sensation rose, heady as the thick oak underneath his fingers creaked. The feeling was queer, painful, yet not, pleasurable, but too much. He grunted, free hand pressing against his chest, trying to sooth the sudden ache as he wavered. He sucked in a breath, only to choke on it. The realization was muffled - strangely muted considering the gravity of the situation.  _He couldn't breathe._

"Dwalin? Dwalin! What is it? Are you-" Thorin gripped him by the shoulders, voice pitching strangely in his ears as somewhere in the background Balin ordered everyone out. Kili and Fili – young as they were – were hastened through the door, with Dis leading the charge as she herded the entire group of merchants and nobles clear out of the room personally.

_He needed to breathe. He had to-_

But whatever Thorin had said was lost to him, drowned out by the fast-paced thrum of his beating heart. Sweat slicked across his skin, splattering across the flagstones as he slumped, weak, into Thorin's hold. Balin was there too, one arm flung over his side, while the other was on his face, trying to get his eyes to focus as the room whirled – spinning like one of Kili's tops as his arse hit the ground with a thud he felt right to his very core.

He staggered, rearing up as they tried to lay him down. Heat exploded through him, flushing down his skin in a way that stole his breath all over again. It turned the very air into ash – flooding through the still with all the power of dragon's fire – eradicating everything it touched. How he was still here, how  _everyone_  save for him was still standing was a mystery to him.

It made no sense.

_Could they not feel it?_

_His body was burning!_

_His mind-_

There were hands scrabbling across his tunic, ripping out the laces and holding him down as he tried his best to fling himself clear across the room, struggling to claw at the burning ember that was searing through his chest. He bellowed, cursing in pain and frustration.

_Could they not see?! It was going to set him aflame! It was going to burn right down to the heart of him until there was nothing left! Nothing left but ash and ember!_

The stinging rasp of someone's nails caught across his chest, and for reasons beyond him, his back arced like a bow string. He smothered a scream into Balin's shoulder – overstimulated, unsure if it was pain or pleasure that had caused it as he tried to wrench himself away. Thorin cursed, throwing his weight across him as Balin gripped him by the shoulders, shaking him –  _yelling_. But he was deaf to it.

It was too much.

Too fast.

_He couldn't-_

And suddenly – as quickly as the pain had started – it faded. It simmered down into a warm golden glow that rose up, filtering through his skin as a feeling, quite unlike any other, rippled through him.

He gasped, trembling with the aftershocks as pleasure – warm and thick - spread through him, trickling out from the center of his chest as the hands moving across his skin suddenly stilled.

There was an intake of breath from somewhere above him.

Awareness drifted back slowly.

He opened his eyes, unsure of when he'd closed them, only to be half blinded by a searing warmth, a golden light that was issuing up from the center of his chest, throbbing in time with his pulse as Balin and Thorin took shape above him.

Together they watched, his brother and King as witness, as a book, intricately engraved, with a quill to match, etched itself across his skin in a beautiful golden script. It filled the room with a shattered prism of the purest gold, highlighting the intertwining ruins of Erebor and the Iron Hills before it gradually faded, sinking back into his flesh with a shimmer.

It left only it's likeliness in black. A perfect tattoo of grey and midnight shading that highlighted the tiny engravings as a dot of ink froze on the tip of the quill before the last of the light faded into his skin.

It was Mahal's script.

_The mark of the soul-bonded._

* * *

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in the shadow of the Iron Hills, a newborn, motherless and small, cried. Heralding the first rays of a dawn it hadn't been expected to see.

It wasn't long before its squalls took on a high, wailing pitch. Bathing the room with a warm glow as little arms and feet kicked up, squirming in its crib as golden light seeped from its ruddy skin. The sound was different from a normal cry and by itself was enough to bring the healer and his apprentices, exhausted by the long labor, running.

"By Mahal's braided beard…" one of the apprentices breathed, hand hovering just above a flailing little foot, spellbound, while the other clutched her long red braid to her face - clearly torn as a commotion sounded just outside the room.

"What is it? Is he alright?!"

Dori stumbled through the door, a harried mess of rumpled sleep clothes and drawn features. Nori was all but on his heels, his mourning braid only half finished as they skidded to a halt. Stopping dead in the threshold when the golden glow ebbed all the brighter, centering itself high on the newborn's forearm - the same arm almost every dwarf used to heft both ax and pick.

It was there, in the presence of dwarrow and dam that they watched as the golden script etched itself across the babe's tiny arm. It revealed itself with an elegant hand; twin axes crossed together, with the runes of Erebor, the lost mountain, faint in the background.

It wasn't until the etching turned black and the child's cries lessened that they found their tongues. Dori was first, seizing on the obvious.

"Is-is he alright?" Worry frayed the edges of his tone as he inched forward, gently stroking a tiny toe as the healer called out a sharp command, and suddenly his apprentices were bustling about, readying a salve that would take away any lingering sting as the old beard set about testing the newborns reflexes.

"I believe so. More than alright, I'd imagine," the healer replied, silver beard jumping and twitching as he smiled hugely. The sadness from the night before was momentarily forgotten as the babe squealed, blinking up at them, eyes smart and sharp in all the ways that seemed apt for the family of Ri.

"But isn't that unusual?" Dori asked, fretting despite the fact that the babe seemed to be in better health than ever, visibly concerned as the healer raised him up by the elbows, pulling out a looking glass as he examined the mark with interest. The mark would not glow gold again until the child was in the presence of his one. Or so the elders said.

"The mark, I mean," Dori added, clearly not about to let the matter rest. And with good reason, there hadn't been a soul-bond in their family for at least fifteen generations. Soul bonds were rare. And when they did appear they were more often seen amongst the greater families of Durin – the more direct lines, tying the founding families together through blood and stone.

Somewhere in the background one of the apprentices stoked the fire, changing the linens and dressings set out for the naming ceremony as the small house rang with happy sounds and excited murmuring. There was still a funeral to plan, and a mother to be put to rest. But the joy of new life still rang, crisp and clear as the news of what'd transpired quickly spread.

"Unusual, but not unheard of," the healer hummed, putting away his looking glass with a flourish. "It simply means that this little one is even luckier than we thought. He made it through the night and has been twice blessed already. The fever might have taken his mother, but Mahal favors him, the mark is a good omen," he added with a chuckle, beckoning to his apprentices as he started packing his bag.

"His one is already alive, is all. Probably gave him or her quite the turn, I'd reckon."

At a loss for words, the two brothers just stared at each other. They let their housekeeper deal with the matter of payment, showing the three dwarrow out with a  _swish-swish_ of her skirts before leaving them in silence for the first time in hours.

And despite the fact that there were arrangements to be made and a time of mourning to come, the brothers Ri couldn't help but smile as their baby brother burbled up at them. The babe reached up, tiny hands gathering up twin handfuls of beard each as a gummy smile spread across his fuzzy cheeks.

"… _Ori_."


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, what about it lad? For honor, gold and glory?" Balin asked, wiggling his eyebrows merrily as he favored him, by all accounts his best pupil, with a benevolent smile.

The words of refusal, polite as they were, were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said. Because really, just because Smaug hadn't been seen in the last sixty years didn't mean anything as far as he was concerned. Dragons could bloody well hibernate for all they knew. (He was young, but he hadn't been born yesterday, thank you very much.)

"Master Balin, I am honored by your offer and-"

But just then, seemingly out of nowhere, his arm  _twinged_. The quill he'd been holding slipped between his fingers, rolling down the length of the desk and onto to the floor with an embarrassing clatter. But he barely noticed. It was a strange, insistent feeling that seemed to be coming right from his mark and somehow he heard himself swallowing, clearing his throat.

"I-I accept."

A burst of warmth flowed through him as the words floated above their heads, whirling like something living, something tangible and real. And as queer as it was, he couldn't help but think that saying them had brought him that much closer to,  _well_  – whoever was waiting for him - to his one.

He shook the elder's hand as Balin smiled, clapping him on the back as he pulled out a lengthy contract with a flourish. Already talking about making preparations and gathering enough supplies for the journey as he ducked down and retrieved the fallen quill, nudging him happily as he pointed out the place he was to sign.

He bit his lip, scanning the first few paragraphs.

Evisceration? Lacerations?  _Oh dear._

Dori wasn't going to like this. Not one bit.

* * *

He'd always wondered about his soul mate. What they were like? Did they think of him? Mahal, he would have settled on knowing the  _gender_  if he was being perfectly honest. Not that it mattered much to him, but it would be nice to be able to put a face to his imaginings.

He'd spent hours in front of his looking glass, staring at his reflection, inky hands tracing across his mark until he could have duplicated it on the other. He knew every inch of it, from the runes of the Lonely Mountain to the delicate engraving worked into the crossed axes.  _Grasper and Keeper._  He knew their names instinctively. Dori called him daft, but he knew.

For the longest time he'd been sure his one would be a blacksmith. He spent a great deal of time reading smithing lore, eager to learn, to understand what might have drawn his mate to such a noble craft. Dori had smiled encouragingly, seeming to approve of this possibility. But the first time he heard it, Nori had just snorted. Making some comment that his one was more likely to be a warrior, considering the mark was not a forge or a smithing hammer.

The resulting argument between his elder brothers had been nothing short of spectacular. Ending in broken plates and harried braids as Nori managed to get Dori worked up into a lather, yelling about impressionable youths and proper table manners until he got Nori in a head-lock. He wrestled him out of the room and into the hall until Nori wriggled free and beat a hasty retreat upstairs – laughing the whole way.

But honestly, he hadn't been paying attention.

A warrior.

_Huh._

He hadn't thought of that.

* * *

The moment Thorin had approached him, spinning the idea of a quest there had been no question in his mind about him going. Hell, he'd practically tossed Grasper and Keeper right into his King's arms just to prove his point. Thorin had been hesitant when he'd broached the subject, but clearly eager. Unsurprising considering the last time Thorin had gotten an idea in his head, he'd come home with a jagged chunk missing from his left ear – his last  _whole_  ear mind you.

But even then, it wasn't until after he'd taken his leave, waving his liege-lord off to start making preparations that he felt it. High in his chest, his mark throbbed. Pulsing with a particular warmth - a thrum of heat and energy he hadn't felt since that day in Eres Lund.

_His one was calling._

He hurried home, stripping off his tunic as he bounded through the door. He caught his breath as he stood in front of the mirror, tracing the etching wonderingly. His mark was still tinged with a hint of golden-red. It shone brilliantly. The color lent life to the script once more as the drop of ink suspended on the tip of the quill, glistening in the low light.

The quest to reclaim Erebor would include fourteen companions.

He knew little more than half of the names Thorin had listed.

Could it really be that simple? Was this how he was supposed to meet his one?

For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to hope.

* * *

Dori  _had_  been furious.

But for once in his life, he put his foot down.

He was going. And that was that.

Dori had just gaped.

Nori had the gall to look mildly impressed.

And honestly, he wasn't sure what to think.

It'd taken Dori about half the day to recover from the shock, but when he did he was pelting around like a bolt of lightning, muttering about under-woolens and new boots. Dragging Nori around like a banner as they left for the market. He was just grateful for the silence.

He thumbed his mark idly, lost in thought as he settled himself in one of the chairs by the fire. The flames crackled, spiting and arcing up with the occasional spark as he nursed a cup of chamomile, letting his mind wander.

_Did they know? Could they feel him coming? What if they didn't like him?_

Uncertainty roiled, deep in the pit of his stomach as he considered the idea. It was foolish, of course, he knew that. Your one was your true mate, it was impossible for them to hate you. After all, they'd been made  _for_ you, fashioned by Mahal himself in the great forge. But it certainly didn't stop him from wondering.

He couldn't help it. For good or ill, it seemed as though Dori's penchant for worrying had rubbed off on him.

He'd always feared what he'd do if he looked down one day and found that the mark had vanished, irrationally afraid that his mate would pass on before they found one another. He'd always been aware of the fact that his one was likely older, the silver beards had said that much soon after his birth. The word had been spread of course, through mine shaft and mountains, yet no news reached them of a mark that'd been etched on another dwarrow's skin on the same moon as his birth.

His one was likely far away, wandering.

He shuddered, warming his hands against the heat of the mug. He couldn't imagine anything worse than watching his mark wane, sinking back into his skin until there was nothing left to mark what had once been - what he'd almost had.

It wasn't until he'd come of age and immersed himself in the lore that he discovered that all his worry was for not. There were few mates who'd ever survived the death of their one, bonded or not. So, likely, he wouldn't have much time to dwell on his loss before their death hastened his.

And that was comforting.

Sort of.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey to the Shire was surprisingly pleasant, if you liked the green. The air was different here, infused with gentle things, soft scents of lavender and honey. He'd probably spent more time sneezing than anything.

Thank Mahal he'd decided to journey alone. Wouldn't do for any of the others to watch Dwalin son of Fundin sniffling and snorting, scaring the small folk every bloody sneeze, after all.

He wasn't exactly sure what to make of it when a tiny little sprite of a girl, all black curls and bright brown eyes darted between his legs when he stopped for a breather outside the town center. Her soft giggles reminded him of Kili when he'd been around the same age, all wobbly limbs and mischievous eyes.

It took him a moment to find her again, but when he did, she had a little fist pressed firmly to her mouth, smiling shyly, holding up a rose-patterned handkerchief just before his eyes started watering. She scampered off, beckoned back by a wary looking father before he could say anything. But the nod of thanks he granted them before he moved on seemed acknowledgement enough.

Strange folk, these halflings.

Kind hearted, but strange.

* * *

He'd been on edge ever since they'd left Eres Lund, stuck between wanting to ride ahead and slink back home. Half of him wanted to forget all about dragons and finding his one as the enormity of what they were actually doing finally settled across his drooping shoulders.

Dori and Nori just exchanged looks they thought he couldn't see behind him. He shook his head. They meant well, but he wasn't ready to share. Not just yet. The possibility of meeting his one was too new – too fresh. He felt that if he said it out loud he'd somehow be cursing them both.

It wasn't until they met up with the others, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, first – the rest two days later just outside of Hobbiton – that his stomach slowly began to settle. He felt more calm, more level-headed than he'd been in weeks. He even got a bit of writing in, scribbling in his journal, the one he'd made specifically for their travels, with an eager hand.

_Perhaps he would meet his one on the journey to Erebor?_

_Perhaps they weren't even part of the company, like he'd originally assumed?_

* * *

He was only half listening – too busy shoving the dining room table deeper into the room - as Kili and Fili nattered on, babbling excitedly about their journey and how tiny the Shire-folk seemed - when the doorbell chimed.

He snorted to himself as the hobbit stomped down the hall, flinging Kili and Fili's weapons down on his mother's glory box as he yelled something about 'dwarves' and 'dining rooms' before the door swung open and what looked like half the dwarves of Erebor spilled across the front carpet.

He leaned against the wall, one shoulder propping himself up as Gandalf peered inside. Tharkun seemed to take no notice of the tangle of dwarves at his feet, not even as their host eyed the dodgy old grey beard with a look that seemed to infer that this was all, somehow, the  _wizard's_  fault. He snorted. He wasn't sure why the Halfling looked so surprised. He'd known they were coming; after all, it wasn't as though the wizard hadn't  _told_  him when he'd decided to invite him along on their quest.

_Besides, who in their right mind stocks a larder that full if they weren't expecting company?_

He recognized a few of them as they lurched to their feet, helping each other up as the odd "get your arse out of my face!" and "your elbow is in my spleen!" rose up from the pile. He knew Gloin from his time on city watch – first in Erebor and again in Eres Lund; Oin from the healer's quarters whose poking and prodding he'd suffered far more times than he cared to count. He knew Dori from his trade dealings with Balin. And Nori – the little shit – well, he'd arrested him more times than he figured any guardsman had a right too.

His brow rose a bit when the Ri brothers dug deep through the pile, upsetting Bofur and Bombur as they hauled a smaller dwarf to his feet. He'd heard they had a younger brother but had never met him. He hadn't even known the youngling was of age, in fact.

"Ori!"

Kili and Fili squeezed past with a happy wriggle, enveloping the smaller figure with a brand of gusto that the red-haired dwarf seemed well accustomed too. Pulling himself free from Dori's mothering as the three of them knocked heads, yammering excitedly about their travels as Dori rolled his eyes and reached down to help Bofur to his feet.

His gaze moved on, mentally counting through the pile as Bilbo tried to make himself heard above the din. The next second his mark  _throbbed._

His eyes snapped back, instinctively fixing on the youngest Ri the same moment the dwarf looked up, eyes wide as saucers before the world, as it was, seemed to flip on its axis.

* * *

When it happened, he wasn't ready. You'd think after all this time, all this waiting and worrying, he would've at least  _expected_  it. That he would have been ready for the rush of fire that coursed through his veins, spinning out from the very heart of him as all the air in the room left in a rush.

His journal fell out of his hand, knocking against Kili's knee before hitting the ground in a flutter of loose papers and cracked bindings. He gasped, clutching his arm as molten heat rushed through him, bubbling up from the source, _his mark_ , as a feeling of warmth and peace washed over him. Then he looked up and met eyes with the biggest, most  _intimidating_ dwarf he'd ever seen.

And honestly, all he could really think was that this couldn't _possibly_  end well.

He blinked, eyes wide as his heart leapt in his chest. The dwarf  _was_ a warrior – Nori had been right after all – he was large, fierce and covered in scars. Handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way he'd never realized he found appealing until it was suddenly staring him in the face.

He'd never seen someone more his opposite. Admittedly, that shouldn't have been a problem. Only – it was. Because instead of a feeling of wholeness and completion the only thing he kept coming back to was this  _had_ to be some sort of mistake. After all, how could this be his one? He was a warrior, full bearded and confident in all the ways he was not.

Worse, he  _recognized_  him. He knew him from the tales that Kili and Fili had told him of their Uncle and his friend Dwalin son of Fundin – a distant sister-cousin to the line of Durin. He'd grown up eagerly listening to their exploits in battle, celebrating their victories and mourning their losses - play fighting with the urchins of the Blue Mountains, the Iron Hills, and beyond.

_And after all that, this was to be his one?!_

He fidgeted, fingers tangling with the hem of his sweater. He could hear the others talking, Fili was saying something, something he should probably be listening to but it was all distant, muffled.

It didn't seem right – or even fair. It didn't seem right that such a great warrior was stuck with _him_  for his other half. His cheeks heated in sorrow and shame, lowering his eyes when he realized he had an audience. He didn't begrudge the dwarf his expression as he glared, there was confusion, a pained sort of bemusement that was filtered through with something he didn't recognize as the sounds of the room rushed back. If he was in his place, he might have even done the same.

Self-doubt was quick to set in as the big dwarf took his measure, looking at him as though he'd never seen anything quite like him as the conversation around them trickled to a standstill. His mind raced, belly churning as the dwarf's beard twitched.  _Was he disappointed? Did his one not want him?_

He went cold as the thought settled in and grew roots.

_Mahal, what a nightmare!_

* * *

Before he realized his feet were moving, he found himself halfway across the room. He knelt down, picking up the book that had fallen from the lad's grip. Recognition jolted through him as he ran his fingers down the familiar bindings, thumbing the runes, the dog-eared edges as he tidied the papers and slipped them back between the covers.

He knew them all by heart, and for good reason. They matched his mark down to the last ragged page, that one small little imperfection in the leather that gave the center a slightly faded look.

He closed his eyes, heart thumping so hard in his chest he swore the others could hear. There could be little doubt of it now. The lad was his one. His mark sparked – hissing pleasantly just under his skin in clear agreement.

He glanced down, hunching his shoulders. Suddenly grateful he hadn't thought to take off his furs; sure his mark would by shining clear through his tunic by now, pearling across the walls with a shattered prism of pure gold. From what the silver-beards said, it would be of the same ilk it'd been that day when it'd first been etched.  _The day his one had been born._

He was about to say something, book in hand, as good feelings thrummed though him, thoughts sluggish and warm when he noticed the expression on the lad's face. Horror washed through him as Ori's face visibly paled. He hadn't considered that his one wouldn't take to him. He'd always assumed it was a given, that they'd meet and everything else would fall into place – make sense. But by the look on the youngling's face, that certainly wasn't the case.

Irritation and uncertainly rose.

_What if this was all just some big mistake? A misunderstanding?_

Dori was the only one that seemed to notice something was amiss, pulling the lad to his side and dusting him off, paying him no mind as the boy clutched at his arm, eyes wide. The eldest Ri seemed to be waiting for Ori to say something, anything.

He quivered in place, fighting the desire to let his body do the talking and what needed to be done, said. The lad was his one, strange as it was.

But then-

"I'm fine, Dori. It's nothing, I-I just fell a bit wrong is all," Ori stuttered, lashes lowering as he looked away. Dori just pursed his lips, appearing frustrated at his brother's resistance. But that was before the older dwarf followed his brother's stare and saw him.

Dori's mouth opened and closed like a flounder before realization filtered across his face, and suddenly he was elbowing Nori, gesturing wildly as the poor lad looked like he wanted to slip right between the floor boards. His throat felt heavy, thick and almost suffocating as he forced himself to swallow.

_His one wouldn't meet his eyes._

The thin thread of warmth that had survived his initial misgivings snapped, the action abrupt and violent in a way that was only made worse when Ori wouldn't meet his gaze. His mark hummed, urging him to walk forward – to take – claim – and have even as every sullied inch of him screamed the exact opposite.

_If this was his one, Mahal was playing a cruel trick indeed._

When he dropped the book, the sound not unlike a thunder clap, it drew the eyes of everyone in the room. But by the time they found their tongues, he was already moving, shoving himself through the crowd and away from prying eyes as he headed right for the ale cask.

He needed a drink, or five.

_Hell, maybe the whole barrel._

The Halfling probably had more than a few spares lying around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference #1: "Tharkun." is Gandalf's dwarvish name. Khuzdul for 'staff-man' or 'grey man,' as per canon.


	4. Chapter 4

"Uh, what beast?" Bilbo asked, hesitant and uncertain from the hallway as the others turned, disbelieving that even a place as homely and sheltered as the Shire could be unaware of the dragon's ruin. There wasn't a dwarf alive that didn't know the dragon's name, nor the foul deeds he'd wrought in Erebor's stony depths.

Privately he was unsurprised; he'd researched the Shire once he'd learned they would be passing through. He'd been shocked to find there was barely any lore on them at all. Their borders were protected by Rangers – a duty the men-folk of the north took on freely. It seemed as though everyone who came upon the Shire were quickly charmed by its occupants and their easy going manner. War, famine, sickness, none of it had touched the Shire in over an age. There was no place for darker things to take root – no way for evil and weakness to find a foothold.

From what he'd read, the Shire-folk were harmless. Good natured and prone to sticking close to hearth and home. They had no interest in honor and glory, nor did they covet gold or finer things. They were born content and thus, died in the same fashion. In fact, it was considered rare to see one north of Bree.

"Well, that would be a reference to 'Smaug the Terrible', chiefest and greatest calamity of our age," Bofur answered, puffing on his pipe unconcernedly, not seeming to notice when the wizard shot him a pointed look.

He caught a glimpse of Dwalin out of the corner of his eye. His expression fell when he realized the warrior was staring at him. He chewed on his lower lip.  _What was he waiting for? Affirmation? A challenge?_ He didn't know what to do. How to handle this thing between them that was  _very_ clearly a mistake.

"Airborne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks - extremely fond of precious metals," Bofur added after a pause, looking up from his pipe as even Thorin's brow rose.

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo replied, looking slightly miffed at the assumption as his thumbs tangled in his suspenders.

He didn't know what forced him to leap to his feet. All he knew was that Dwalin was  _still_ staring and if he didn't do  _something_ he was going to burst apart at the seams.

"I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of Dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!" he proclaimed, brave words spouting unbidden as everyone turned, looking at him with varying degrees of derision and amusement.

"Sit down!" Dori hissed, yanking him back into his chair as Fili and Kili grinned, raising their cups towards him as the entire table devolved into argument.

"What in the seven hells has gotten into you?" his older brother whispered, furious.

His cheeks colored, hiding his embarrassment with a sip of ale.  _He wished he knew._

All he knew was that the look of muted surprise on Dwalin's face felt strangely like a victory.

* * *

"Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk that can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

It  _wasn't_  a mistake. He knew it as well as he breathed. Ori was his one. How? He didn't know. It was like a grand joke was being played at his expense. How could Mahal have chosen this lad for him? For his one? The sprite was too gentle, too young and untested for the likes of him.

He looked up as Balin agreed, only to catch the tail-end of the lad's expression as hurt and wounded pride washed across his fine features. In fact, the youngling reacted as though he'd slapped him, assuming that his words had been directed at him rather than their host, as a mortified flush stole down his cheeks.

_And despite the circumstances, he couldn't help but wonder how far down that blush went._

He grunted, looking away as arguments broke out across the table, perhaps it was for the best. The lad was too kind for the likes of him. He'd never heard of Mahal making a mistake and yet here they were. Perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps Ori  _was_ his one but he was not  _his_. He supposed anything was possible when gods and mortals were in the mix.

And even if they were each other's half, there was no way such a union would be fair to the lad. He had no idea how to approach him – how to reach him. The lad was on a pedestal and he was the stupid beggar simpering at his feet. He'd never felt this way, this inadequate in all his years and he certainly didn't relish the thought of it starting now _. The youngling didn't even have a full beard for Mahal's sake!_

It wasn't until Thorin yelled for silence that he forced himself back to the present.

There was a quest to plan after all.

* * *

Balin tried to say something that night in the Hobbit hole, when the others had bedded down for the evening. He'd made a point to settle down on the other side of the house from the Ri brothers, ignoring his brother's incensed look and sneering at Dori's scandalized one.

Ori just stared at his lap, pretending to be absorbed in his writing. He'd just snorted, walking off in huff, frustrated that he knew that much instinctively. He didn't even have to look to know the lad was nibbling on the end of his quill, smearing ink across that pouting lower lip as-

He cursed, shouldering through the front room as a quiet little sigh issued from behind him. He knuckled his forehead, feeling the distinct urge to punch something – or someone. And as if on cue, his brother followed him into the shadows, ignoring the snores of Bofur and Bombur – even the glittering eyes of Thorin who was still standing by the hearth, lost in thought, pipe long since simmered down to ember.

"Leave it," he gritted, turning away as Balin made to speak. "For once in your life, leave me be."

The hurt and disappointment on his brother's face only made him hate himself that much more when Balin walked off, shaking his head sadly.

They left the Shire at first light.

* * *

The trolls had almost got Nori.

Almost  _roasted_  the lot of them.

He shuddered, pulling his sweater back on with a blush, clutching at his furs self-consciously as Bifur yammered on in Khuzdul behind him, oblivious to the fact that his brothers were trying to help him into his trousers. Too busy miming what was either a part of the battle or a vast conspiracy that had existed for centuries between trees and mountains that seemed to involve quite a bit more squashing and violence for his taste.

Dwalin had been a beacon, a flickering spit of light as the fire had reflected off his axes. He looked every inch the warrior of legend and more. Because when the troll grabbed him, seizing him by the shoulders in mid-dash – running away from the one he'd just nabbed with his sling-shot - Dwalin had taken a flying leap off Oin's back and brought Grasper down with a bone-shattering crack. He forced the troll to drop him as he whirled, slamming his ax across a soft mid-section – then a jaw - all in quick succession.

He stared down at his slingshot; suddenly feel intensely foolish – childish. He felt like a dwarfling who'd been playing at war only to find himself in the middle of a real one. He clenched his eyes shut as scenes from the skirmish played out behind his tightly closed lids. The ponies had been screaming, but the clash of iron had rung out clear as day. Dori had yelled something, trying to keep him behind, but then that troll had grabbed Nori and-

He'd told his brothers he could take care of himself. He'd signed the contract knowing full well what dangers could befall them and instead of holding his own, it was Dwalin who'd to come to his aid. Worse, Fili had saved his hide only a few seconds later when he'd tried to distract the troll trying to stomp Bombur into jelly, getting grabbed again trying to make a break for the treeline.

Embarrassment filtered through him, flushing down his neck like a sunburn. He watched from behind veiled lids as the others put themselves to rights, repacking the supplies and tending to the bruises and scrapes as Thorin took Gandalf to task for leaving. He didn't have to look far before his gaze fell on Dwalin, finding him close to the fire, using the light to inspect his axes before he grunted and flipped them, tossing them easily into the harness on his back.

He swallowed. He'd grown up on stories of Dwalin's prowess; he'd followed their King from battle field to great hall. Perhaps Dwalin was right. What right did he have to be out there? He was a liability. Even  _Kili_ could fight and he was decades his junior.

He had half a mind to toss the slingshot into the brush and be done with it. But he knew he couldn't. Nori had carved it for him on his thirtieth name day and he'd coveted it ever since. Excited to find he excelled at something outside of ink pots and parchment.

He sighed, supposing there was nothing for it. It wasn't like he'd been completely useless after all. He had managed to get the troll to drop Nori. Perhaps he'd ask Fili and Kili to teach him the basics in sword craft in the morning.  _How hard could it be?_

He patted his pockets, realizing that the familiar weight of the pouch he'd tied to his belt was missing.  _Now where had that darn thing gotten off to now?_ He'd taken to collecting any decent looking rocks since their evening in the Shire, figuring that having fodder for his slingshot that was close at hand was probably wise if he was aiming to actually use it.

He nearly choked on his own tongue when Dwalin was suddenly just _there_ , sliding in, distant yet undeniably present as he handed him his missing pouch. His mark thrummed, seeping up through his skin and simmering under his furs at the presence of his one.

_His one._

_His._

His soul sang for a moment before he squashed it.

"Dropped this," the dwarf grunted, pressing the bag into his chest with a jerky little movement – almost as if he was trying to be gentle but failed somewhere in the follow through.

"Th-thank you, Mister Dwalin," he replied, thanking Mahal that at least his lips had enough sense to remember his manners as his brain spun at the man's closeness. His tongue peeked out, slicking innocently across his lower lip as a lulling, dry heat rose up between them.

It took a handful of beats before the older dwarf seemed to regain his composure, looking like he'd rather be back on the troll's roasting spit before he shook himself, blinking before he tossed a handful of words over his shoulder and stomped off.

"'Yer a good shot. Keep practicing."

He told himself his happy beam was more because they weren't some nasty troll's breakfast than from the compliment, but considering his luck, he was sure neither him nor Dwalin were completely fooled.


	5. Chapter 5

He figured out pretty quickly that the whole 'keep his distance and observe from afar plan' had been basically destined for failure from the very beginning. He'd tried, by Mahal's beaded braids, he'd  _tried._

He couldn't help it if Ori was just so  _present._ He didn't know if it was by accident or design, but he swore that whenever he turned around, the lad's pony was nudging up against his, his bedroll just a few dwarves too close. It only got worse from there. Because when the orc pack found them, suddenly they were running side by side. No matter what he did, they always ended up beside one another.

It was like a compulsion.

_He couldn't help it._

Or worse, maybe he could and he didn't want to.

In the same way some precious metals were prone to sticking together, they were never far from the other. It didn't seem to matter that they were unwilling parties – at least Ori was, of that much he was sure. The lad could still barely look at him.  _Mahal, what a mess!_

Whatever scholar had the nerve to proclaim the realization of a bond as the most blissful and joyous time in a dwarf's life had clearly been full of it. He was stuck between wanting to strangle Ori and fuck him right through the nearest wall. He hated him, longed for him, and had no idea what to bloody well do with himself, all at the same time.

_Blissful, his hairy ass!_

* * *

"Ori, no! Get back!"

He nearly put a rib out of place when Thorin stopped in mid-run, grabbing Ori by the collar at the last second, hiding them behind the rocks as the Orcs chasing the Brown wizard - Rat-a-tat something or other - shifted direction. Because despite being a few dwarves behind, he'd reached forward anyway. It was like there was a thread drawing ever tighter between them, and he was just about done choking under it.

He felt Ori's surprise like it'd been his own. A dozen raw emotions rose up, foreign but familiar, experiencing each and every one like a wine-master tasting a particularly excellent vintage - fighting to separate where his thoughts ended and Ori's began.

He lurched backwards, almost squashing Kili against a boulder before he regained enough of himself to start running again. The connection between them stayed open, fueling his steps as Ori's fear rose, cresting like rolling ocean waves as flashes of thoughts and images filtered through the bond. He shook himself, trying to clear his head as  _faster-faster-faster_ echoed in the back of his mind. It was a harried, pitching chant that seemed to match the wordless murmurs issuing from the lad's lips as he ran full tilt beside him.

It'd been a long time since he'd felt fear that raw. It was a harsh, acrid back-splash that reminded him of his first kill, and the bile that had risen up in its wake.

Close behind them, a warg howled.

Ori lurched, nearly tripping before he evened out, his sprint turning into a full out charge across the rocky plains as Thorin yelled for Kili to start shooting.

And he'd be god damned if he didn't find another impossible burst of speed to match him.

* * *

He hadn't been able to hold back his excitement when they'd approached Rivendell. Oh, he was nervous of course. But the historian in him was all but  _itching_  to explore. He'd grown up hearing the stories, about how the Elves had abandoned them, about the rift that had weakened the bonds between allies until the day King Thranduil had stood on the edge of their borders, dressed for battle, only to turn away.

If the death knell for the old alliances had already been rung, it was that slight that had truly shattered them. He'd listened to the stories, read the histories, and even to him, the injustice suffered by his people burned.

But even then, he wasn't convinced that all elves were the same: 'conniving tree-shaggers that couldn't be bothered with the problems of outsiders,' if you asked Thorin and Nori's opinion. He'd studied enough dusty old tomes to know that the truth was rarely so one sided.

Still, the tension had been thick, like rusted iron a hair's breath from shattering when that horn had blown. He'd only had a second to look around before an entire company of elves quickly overtook the thin bridge, surrounding them in a whirl of horseflesh and flickering banners.

He felt a momentary burst of fear before Dwalin's arm slammed across his chest, gauntlets digging into the knitted wool as he pulled him back – _protective_. And quite suddenly, like a balm to a burn, the fear trickled away. The ball of tightness in his chest unraveled and for a moment, he just breathed. It didn't matter that the elves were still circling them, mail stained black with orc blood, or that the others were shouting. Everything was calm.

_Safe._

_Still._

He blinked when he realized it was true, he hadn't felt this safe since he'd been a dwarfling, when he'd had nothing more to be afraid of than braving the dark after a night terror. Luckily, Dori's room had been on the other side of the hall, even for the skittering feet of a dwarfling, his elder brother had never been far.

He felt settled –  _sure_. It was a similar feeling to the one he'd gotten when he'd been young, tip-toeing to Nori's room after one of the bad nights – nights when Nori came home late, covered in dirt and bruises. He remembered the utter surety that had followed when he'd climbed in beside him, tangling his fingers in his brother's beard in an effort to make sure he didn't go anywhere before he could say goodbye.

Surety and comfort streamed through the bond, passing from Dwalin into him as the warmth of the man at his side slowly cured the chill he hadn't realized had gone bone deep – jangled nerves from their close call only an hour or so before.

He laughed to himself (albeit nervously) when the elves finally dismounted. He watched with interest when Lord Elrond swung himself off his horse, a smile on his face, greeting Gandalf like an old friend.

' _Cultural differences,'_ he thought, chastising himself internally. To dwarves such an abrupt move would have been grounds for an attack. It would have been understood as an aggressive show of force – a slight deliberately done to show the smaller party where the true power lies, something seen as unnecessary and insulting to most red-blooded dwarves.

But to elves, perhaps such a thing meant something different?

Either way he sighed in relief when the crowd of soldiers and horses thinned and Elrond bid them welcome.

_That is, until he saw the state of the dinner table._

* * *

He didn't blame Kili for assuming the fair looking elf had been a dam. He'd chuckled, but sympathized. It was an easy enough mistake to make considering the circumstances. Like the daughters of men, elven women lacked the silky beards and soft whiskers that their women wore so proudly.

He'd seen more than his fair share of elves through Dori's tailoring business, far more than Kili and Fili at any rate. Dori had certainly never batted an eye when one would inevitably find its way through the door in Eres Lund – inquiring about thread counts and tailoring costs, emboldened by his brother's reputation in the business for both excellence and quality.

On the odd time Nori had actually been around to complain about it, Dori had lost his temper. He'd quickly realized it was something of a sore spot between his brothers after he'd witnessed Dori chasing Nori around the kitchen with a wooden ladle one evening in his tweens. Yelling about prejudices and dwarves that couldn't see a gold coin despite their face as Nori had beat a hasty retreat elsewhere, leaving Dori to stew for the majority of the evening while he hid in the den.

But honestly, the evenings when Dori would fall silent, slumping deep into his arm chair, were the worst. His older brother would brood for hours before he finally spoke, eventually reminding Nori that it wasn't just dwarves who'd lost kit and kin under the mountain. Men and Elves had fallen with them.

Some of his best customers, and in fact, businesses partners, had been silk merchants from the Woodland realm. They'd been a mated pair of Silvan elves that his brother had known since his coming of age ceremony. They had been his brother's first investors outside the family, seeing his brother's talent and knack for thread and fabric, they'd helped finance his first shop, cutting a deal that involved their silks being sold alongside that of dwarvish make. It'd been a partnership – no – a  _friendship_  that had flourished successfully right up until Smaug had laid siege to the mountain.

They'd been in the shop, along with all his apprentices the day Smaug came. The only reason Dori been spared was because hadn't been there in the first place. He'd asked them to wait while he dealt with an urgent matter concerning their mother, something to do with faulty shingles and over eager suitors. Promising to treat them to a home cooked meal after business was finished. He'd been halfway back when the alarms began to sound. The guilt his brother felt at their loss was still as fresh as it had been that day, decades before.

Dori didn't talk often about the day Erebor fell, so when he did, he stayed silent, sitting beside his brother's feet, providing what comfort he could until the words finally came.

So yes, perhaps he  _didn't_ understand the elves, nor the rift that seemed so rife between their peoples. But perhaps that was something he  _could_ do after all this was sorted. He could  _try_  to understand. It seemed as good a first step as any.

* * *

He was cursing the elves long before they made it to the dinner table.

_Limp-legged tree-shaggers, the lot of 'em!_

But the travesty they presented as a welcoming meal was pretty much the icing on the fruitcake as far as he was concerned. Queer as he was, at least the Halfling had had meat, and lots of it. Unsurprisingly it was a sentiment echoed by all.

He'd nearly choked when Ori flat out refused the piece of green Dori had been trying to press on him. Imagine, eating greens like some common sow! It was practically unheard of.

His mother, Mahal keep her, would have had a fit! Her sons forced to eat his greens? He would have never heard the end of it.

He didn't blame the lad when he scooted off in search of chips. No self-respecting dwarf would ever willingly snack on something so- so-  _green_. Give him meat, right off the bone, thank you  _very_ much. It could still be  _bleeding_  for all he cared.

_Mahal, if they didn't get out of here soon he was going to bloody well starve._

* * *

The elvish wine was sweet on his tongue and for split second he forgot about Dwalin. He forgot about his one – his current predicament - and laughed as Bofur did a prancing jig across the table, sending grains and greens whizzing off into open space as the entire table pounded their tankards to the beat.

He forgot all about dragons, elvish politics and the distressing lack of meat. He forgot about the uncertain future that lay before them and let himself enjoy the moment. Breathing it in in all its shades as the harp music spluttered off to a stop and the elves looked on, speechless, as Bofur began to sing.

But when he chanced a look across the table, he was unsurprised when his eyes met Dwalin's. In fact, he could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile reflecting back at him before Gloin said something and the warrior looked away.

He told himself later that Dwalin had been grinning at Bofur's antics, or at Kili who was still blushing, currently getting into a rather vicious looking shoving match with Fili as the entire table devolved into off-key verses and a half-hearted food fight.

After all, Dwalin couldn't have been smiling at  _him_.

_Could he?_


	6. Chapter 6

"We must find shelter!" Thorin yelled.

He gasped, spitting up a mouthful of rain, cowl hanging low as he tried to avoid the worst of the deluge. His boots slipped on a patch of moss, sending him dangerously close to the edge before Dwalin gripped him, shoving him back onto the path as a gust of wind screamed through the mountain pass. He shivered, soaked to the bone, mindlessly grateful as the older dwarf hemmed him in from behind.

He would have been insulted that Dwalin had taken to treating him like spun glass if it weren't for the fact that, without the warrior's aid, he would have probably tumbled down the mountain side at least a dozen times over by now.

Indeed, Dwalin seemed to have given up on any pretense of distance, and instead stuck to him like binding glue. He wasn't exactly sure  _when_  it'd started, but he knew when he'd started noticing - after Rivendell and their near run-in with the elves. He still remembered the force of it when Dwalin had shoved him back, instinctively shielding him as the elves circled,  _want-need-protect-safe_  flowing through the bond like water streaming between his fingers.

It'd felt right somehow.  _Proper._

He couldn't quite explain it. But it was like, for the first time since he'd laid eyes on the dwarf,  _something_ about the entire mess finally made sense. Either way, he certainly wasn't complaining. Dwalin was a solid, warm weight at his side as they made their way up the mountain – hampered at every turn by the weather.

"Look out!" Dwalin bellowed.

He chanced a look up and squeaked, inhaling a lungful of water as a vast, looming shape hurtled towards them, smashing across the cliff above their heads as they dived for cover.

"This is no thunder storm! This is a thunder battle! Look!" Balin yelled, barely audible above the crack of falling stone as an impossible shape tore itself free from the opposing mountain pass, a rock the size of a small hill already flying through the air, propelled by a giant fist.

He was half-drowned in the stinging rain, but for some reason, even when the mountain came alive underneath them, he found himself laughing. Distantly, he knew he should have been terrified, but even as his fingers dug deep into the rock, trying to find what cover they could as ancient gods duelled, he gritted his teeth, growling his defiance as Dwalin did the same beside him, yelling into the wind as his blood thickened. He felt the dwarf's exhilaration - his excitement as another massive stone was hurled clear across the valley, slamming into the second stone giant with an earth shattering crack.

It was adrenaline, he realized, adrenaline and the pure spit of joy that only comes when you realize how much you  _truly_  want to live. That feeling you get when you find yourself miraculously whole and breathing when by all rights you probably  _shouldn't_  be. He'd never felt anything like it. He felt vibrantly _,_   _terrifyingly_ alive _._

Dori would have probably been appalled if he knew he was picking up someone else's bad yet, he found he hardly cared. If this was what Mister Dwalin felt every time he went into battle, a headlong rush into something so full – so  _big_  – well, he could certainly see the appeal.

He felt like he could take on the world and win single-handedly. Or, he supposed, that was what _Dwalin_  it'd been hard to tell the difference.

Dwalin's hand was on his shoulder again, helping him keep his balance as the world tilted and half the rock face they were clinging to split in half. But he barely noticed. All he knew was that without a thought, he leaned into it – soaking in the feel of him as the siren call of what remained unspoken between them grew loud and sweet in his ears.

His head lolled, losing track of time. On some level he was vaguely aware that their souls were singing – singing in time to a rhythm he couldn't place as the bright thread that connected them thrummed with life. There was a promise there, hidden underneath all that brightness. Like the thin tendril of some small, growing thing, all it needed was a little space, a little room to breathe and perhaps it would-

Somewhere beside him, Bilbo cried out. Kili yelled. The wind grew claws and tried to rip them clear off the edge as the stone giants screeched.

His mark burned, aching to the point of bursting as a tangle of thoughts filtered through the fledgling bond.  _Need. Fight. Claim. Run. Protect. Mine._ Because somehow, Dwalin was there, inside his head, his dark thoughts getting muddled up with his own and  _gods_ , he didn't know if he could-

He shook himself, hurtling back to the present just in time for the world to shift  _again_  and suddenly the opposing rock face was rushing back towards them. He threw himself backwards at the last second, feeling Dwalin do the same as the ear-splitting sound of rock grating against rock deafened them to all else.

_Mahal save him from the foolish hope of a dwarfling who should know better!_

* * *

He wasn't blind to the looks the others kept shooting them. There was a level of awareness that existed beyond sense and reason – and at this point the others didn't have to  _see_ the mark to  _know_. He could practically taste their excitement, their honest pleasure as they looked forward to watching the bond between them flower.

Only it  _didn't_ and honestly, he didn't know  _who_  was more miffed about it.

Everyone was getting their beards in a knot over nothing, if you asked him.

As if he didn't have enough to worry about with keeping Ori in check and them all one step away from a pack of bloody thirsty orcs! Mahal, he was practically drowning under the weight as the other's expectant looks turned to confusion and frustration. Even Thorin had fixed him with more than a few questioning glares. But considering the attention the dwarf was directing towards their burglar of late, he figured he'd have an out if Thorin ever tried to mention it.

The hobbit had better be on his guard. He knew  _that_  look. Thorin would have him courted and bedded in no time if he had his way. The only trick was getting the gigantic, kingly stick out of his arse and actually getting around to it.  _Mahal, where was Dis when you really needed her?_  Thorin's sister had always been good at giving the dwarf a kick in the pants. Hopefully it wouldn't take Thorin that long to realize what'd been right under his nose all along.

He snorted, half mirthful - half frustrated, as he inspected his blades, making sure the rain and falling rock hadn't dulled the edges as the others tried to get some rest. They were squashed in, almost on top of each other in the small cave Thorin had deemed good enough for a few hours rest.

He sighed, letting his mind wander as Bombur's soft snores turned loud, echoing until Bofur leaned over and kicked him onto his side. He'd sent the man a thankful nod when the snoring returned to its usual, soft rasp. He looked around, doing a quick count. Bofur was on watch. Thorin was haunting the cave's entrance. The hobbit was pretending to sleep and he wasn't the only one. Only about half of the company was truly resting, the rest were just, well,  _waiting._

He hadn't been blind to their scheming, for when they'd crowded into the cave, wringing out their clothes and trying to find a spot to unfurl their bedrolls, Dori and Nori had practically  _propelled_ Ori clear across the cave and towards the  _oh_ -so- _conveniently_ free space beside his own bedroll.

He'd just gritted his teeth and rolled so he was facing the wall, doing his best to give the lad his privacy as the younger dwarf had looked back at his brothers - all big brown eyes and a faintly betrayed expression until he eventually gave up and started pestering Bombur for supper.

He'd tried to ignore it, but instead he found himself hyper aware of  _everything_ , every sound, every breath, every unfettered sigh and uncomfortable bout of fussing. It'd taken awhile, but eventually the lad had settled, scribbling in his journal until – quite by accident – he fell asleep in the middle of a sentence, smearing ink clear across the page as his scruffy chin dipped into his chest and his breathing slowed.

_Mahal was testing him, that much was clear._

He supposed he should have expected something like this sooner or later. Considering that the others opinions on the subject had currently settled on a disgruntled sort of sadness that seemed to carry on the coattails of every word – every action as the company watched them from under veiled lids.

_Pah! Nosey dunderheads, the lot of 'em!_

Even the hobbit hadn't been completely oblivious. He'd tried beating around the bush about it, looking confused and a hundred percent done with the entire affair until he finally broke and took to badgering Bofur and Gandalf until one of them finally explained the situation over supper a few nights after their stay in Rivendell.

The hushed tones had been fooling no one. But at least they'd tried to be discrete about it.

Though, if anything, the hobbit had only looked  _more_ confused after the talk than before it.

Personally he didn't see why it was anyone's business other than his own. This was between him and Ori. But since no one seemed keen on asking his opinion about it, he kept his mouth shut, wasn't like he didn't have a bloody job to do after all. The fact that he'd rather knock himself out with his own hammer than chance a talk with the lad on the subject was completely beside the point.

But even _that_  seemed to change after their escape from Goblin Town.

When he'd tossed Ori Keeper it'd seemed a natural thing. They'd had barely enough time to note the change before Gandalf was advancing on the Goblin King – he'd grabbed his hammers, tossed Thorin his sword and then they were running again.

It was only when the dust had settled and they were counting their blessings on the Carrock that he caught Ori's eye across the crowd. He'd blinked in surprise when he realized that Keeper's blade was crusted with Warg blood. Ori just blushed, holding tight to the weapon in a way that sent warmth coiling deep in his belly. The lad had blooded his blade and with that of a Warg no less.

_Mahal, he would have paid a hefty price to have been able to see the lad's first real kill._

The thought alone caused a fierce, bubbling pride to rise, taking in the lad's flushed cheeks and blood spattered sweater with relish. The dwarf's eyes were wide – dilated – and fixed on his face. He inhaled on reflex, trying and failing to separate his scent from the others, certain he'd still smell just as sweet, just as unique as he had that day in the Shire.

He'd never seen anything more becoming, more-

Oin cleared his throat somewhere just off to the side. But the sound was forced, like the man was trying his best to hold back a cough but had failed somewhere in the follow through. He looked up just in time to see Kili and Fili nudge each other, grinning hugely.

Reality returned like the back-splash of bile after a long night of drink. His stomach churned when he realized they were the center of attention – the others staring hopefully as a strong wind rose up from the east.

_How long had he been staring? How long had they been-_

There was a squeak, not unlike something small and furry accidentally getting trodden upon as Ori turned at least seven different shades of red and ducked out of view, hiding behind Dori as a rash of disappointed murmuring rose up to fill the quiet.

He ground his teeth, glaring death at the sky until Thorin finally took pity and ordered them to start making their way down to the valley below.

* * *

The others had enough sense to leave him be as they descended, taking one look at his expression before letting him stalk ahead. He wished he could say the same for his own kin however. Because halfway down, mindful of the uneven stone steps, Balin tried to get a word in.

"Brother, if you would just-"

"No," he grunted, keeping his eyes on the path in front of him, forcing Balin to skip awkwardly behind him. "I have no patience for anymore meddling today, brother."

"Dwalin, it isn't good for the both of you to be avoiding-"

" _Enough_ ," he spat, moving forward without another word. In no mood to trade barbs as he pushed Bombur and Bifur ahead of him, forcing his brother to continue down the narrow steps without him.

He dealt with his own messes.

He would figure this out.

_Somehow._


	7. Chapter 7

When you met your one, you were supposed to know. Everything was supposed to make sense. There was supposed to be a sense of completion – wholeness. But even now, having had time to mull over the idea, he still didn't feel  _any_ of those things.

Doubt was the only thing he saw when he chanced a look the warrior's way _. Doubt three times over._ Not to mention the dwarf's stares were only becoming more and more unnerving. He'd given up trying to imagine what Dwalin was thinking when he kept sending him those strange, heated looks. Now he just tried to avoid them. Only he couldn't. It didn't matter what he was doing, if he smiled, or was lost in thought, inevitably, whenever he looked up, the man's gaze would settle on his, eyes black, dark and far too-

He shivered, rattled at the direction his thoughts had taken as he stumbled after Nori, doing his best to stay on the path. Gandalf had said as much - they had to stay on the path. If they didn't bad things would happen. He blinked, his head felt muddled, like someone had stuffed the space between his ears with cotton. He felt strange, tired, irritated for little reason.

It was said that the trees played tricks on the mind. Or was it the forest? But then again was a forest truly a forest without trees? He frowned; too busy tying his brain in knots to realize that Nori's feet seemed to be facing backwards. _Or was he walking backwards?_

He shook himself, finding the loose threads from his original line of thought and seizing on them triumphantly. He'd done his best to keep his distance, especially after the Carrock. That lapse had been inexcusable, especially on his part. He'd let himself get pulled in, he'd felt the heat rise in him, like a fire being stoked from the inside. He'd let himself wonder, if only for a moment, what it would be like to have him – to let the man claim him.

Would he be gentle? Or would he-

He blinked, pushing the thought away before it could grow legs and wander. He had no cause, thinkin' like that. Mister Dwalin was not his. No matter  _what_  Dori said. He'd already decided that the moment they got to mountain he would sneak off to one of the main libraries; surely the others wouldn't miss him for a few moments as he grabbed a few dusty old tomes. It was said that Erebor had the most complete collection of books on the subject of soul bonds – if the dragon hadn't burned them to a crisp that is. And even then, there had to be  _something_ left, something that would give him a hint as to what was happening.

He tipped his head skyward, gazing up at the forest canopy as a strange rustling echoed through the woods. He squinted, seeing nothing. He shook his head, dismissing it. The forest was playing tricks again.

Surely there had be  _some_ writings on the subject, something about faulty bonds? There had to be a precedent. They couldn't be the only ones who'd-

High above them, an animal chittered – moving from branch to branch – a dark looming shape. He tried to ignore it. No one else looked concerned. ' _Shadows,'_ he told himself.

But until then, he'd made the decision to be polite, friendly even. Or at least he'd tried to. All too often he ended up angry with himself when he realized he'd sidled over, standing close. No matter how hard he tried, they  _always_  ended up together. He was unwilling to get his hopes up, unwilling to give the older dwarf the wrong idea. He wasn't that kind of dwarf after all; he didn't play with someone's affections if he didn't plan on-

Somewhere off to his right, there was a muffled cry.

He turned to look but there was no one there.

Someone slammed into him from behind.

He pushed Fili out of his way, angry.

Everything felt odd –  _off_.

He blinked and the clearing they'd stumbled into was suddenly a churning mess of limbs and dark shapes.

Nori was yelling beside him, batting at a long hairy leg that didn't seem to have a body attached before-

A sharp stinging pain on the back of his neck brought him down; knees sinking into the loamy soil as the rest of his body followed him. He had half a moment to wonder where Dwalin had gotten off to before darkness took him.

* * *

Dwalin looked madder than a sink full of wet cats when he'd fished him out of his barrel, lugging him to shore without a word, not even giving him time to say so much as a thank you before he was stomping off again.

He sighed, draining water out of his boot morosely, toes curling in their soaked stockings as he tried to rise above the disappointment.  _Was nothing ever going to be simple between them?_

Personally, he'd settle for cordial right about now. Just because the man clearly  _hated_  him didn't mean he couldn't be polite.

But then there was a man standing above him, bow drawn and Dwalin was somehow just  _there_ – setting himself between him and the arrow. And despite the fear, something in him softened a bit.

* * *

"'Yer mine you know…"

His eyes popped open,  _feeling_  more than hearing the words spill from between his lips. The tone was unfamiliar, the cadence, rough. It wasn't his voice. He looked down at himself, recognizing the thick arms and corded muscle. Feeling the rasp of the thick black beard trickling across a naked chest - more stark than any raven.  _Dwalin._

"You've  _always_  been mine," he heard himself say, tasting the crispness of the vowels as a needy whimper rose up somewhere below his line of sight.  _"Omhîl tûmûbmênu khi?"_

Somehow,  _he_  was Dwalin or at least in part. And really, that should have been his first clue. But as quickly as the realization occurred, a haze of sparking warmth rose and he dismissed it. He didn't question why, the reasoning seemed unimportant – distant.

Movement from below recaptured his attention and he blinked, finding the sensation of looking down at  _himself_  through another's eyes peculiar to say the least.

" _Ubshaguh_ … You can feel it, can't you?" the voice growled, words slipping from his lips without his consent as he felt the man's pleasure – his pleasure – _their_  pleasure – rise.

He watched himself squirm, braids mussed and unraveled, naked and red against the sheets as he – no –  _Dwalin_ loomed above him. He watched himself – Dwalin - pull him closer, one meaty paw yanking him forward until his smaller form was settled in his lap, arching against him as the firm line of his prick hardened against his backside.

"It's only a matter of time."

He jerked awake, the sounds and smells of Laketown came washing back as he blinked into the darkness. The unsteady tilt of his breathing rose as the others slept on, oblivious, stone drunk after the festivities that had been hosted in their honor earlier that evening. His skin prickled, the images from his dream providing a heady backdrop as his head thumped against the wall, hips jerking up into the curl of his palm as he-

He squeaked in dismay when he realized that his prick was bare and heavy, practically strangled between his palm and the bedroll as he shuddered. Pre-cum pearled across the crown, already half smeared by eager fingers. He bit his lip, cock jumping, twitching fitfully at the inattention.

He  _needed_ to-

Mahal, he needed so _badly_.

He swallowed, part of him trying to recall the scent of the other man, the feel of him moving above him as pleasure curled tight in his gut. He chased the feeling – unable to stop himself until he came with a gasp.

He cleaned himself up as best he could before tucking himself back into his layers. Embarrassment flushed across his cheeks as he tried to control his breathing. He curled into a ball and turned over, thankful he'd chosen a quiet corner as he tried not to think - waiting for sleep to claim him.

It didn't occur to him until later – much later, when he was dodging dragon fire and trying his best not to get roasted alive - that it hadn't been  _his_  dream at all.

_It'd been Dwalin's._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> "Omhîl tûmûbmênu khi?" – "Do you feel it?"
> 
> "Ubshâguh." – "My greatest conquest."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: I played around with the time line of Thorin's gold sickness, curing the worst of it just before the battle. I know it is different in the book so, please keep that in mind in terms of this chapter.

Things happened in a rush after that. Smaug, Bard, Thorin, Bilbo, the gold sickness. It seemed like they'd barely gotten a chance to breathe before there was an orc army marching on their doorstep.

Thorin had been barely conscious when the first orc horns had sounded, clocked clear out by Bilbo with a wooden club a few hours before in a desperate attempt to cure of him of the gold sickness that'd clouded his mind.

He hadn't been around for most of it, too busy helping Dwalin and Dori shore up the inner defenses, but from what he'd gathered in passing from Fili and Kili, Bilbo had been at the heart of it. He'd parlayed with the elvish forces, even tempted the descendants of Dale with talks of restarting the alliance that had once thrived between their two peoples and arrived back at the Lonely Mountain just in time to knock some sense into the king before they were at siege.

Bilbo had been at their side when the first blood had been shed. When Thorin's voice had wavered, splitting through the enemy ranks as the lines of men, dwarves, and elves surged forward.

"Baruk khazad! Du bekar!"

_The Battle of the Five Armies had begun._

* * *

Everything was red.

Rent limbs and gore squished under his feet, threatening to turn his heels as he scrambled up a towering pile of the dead, trying to find higher ground as the battle raged around them. He pawed his way through the tangle, closing the eyes of the dead where he could as hot tears threatened to blur his vision. Bloody faces loomed out of the grey. Dwarves, elves, men, too many had already fallen. The senselessness of it was staggering, threatening to bring him to his knees when he finally made it to the top of the carne.

The neat formations and solid lines that'd met the oncoming army at dawn had long since been over run. The factions were separated, armies divided. Men, elves and dwarrow fought side by side, back to back as the enemy lines pushed forward, driving them to the steps of Erebor before they pushed them back again.

The colors of Dale and Mirkwood were strong amidst the melee of figures, but it was the banners from the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills that still stood tall, rippling in the breeze as the smell of death rose and fell like an ocean swell.

_Where was Dwalin? He couldn't see him. Mahal, what if-_

Black blood pooled around his ankles as he brought Keeper down again and again. He yelled out a warning, allowing Bifur to duck just in time as a cave troll bore down on him, cudgel hitting the ground where the dwarf had been only seconds before with a deafening crack. He swung again and there was orc blood on his tongue, bitter and foul, as Bofur whirled, mattock crushing through the rib-cage of the nearest orc before he threw himself towards another that had managed to get Bombur on his back.

He spat on the ground, ridding himself of the taste as he pivoted, cleaving a globin's arm clear from the shoulder, sending the limb – still grasping a crude iron sword – flying into open air with a bitten-off cry.

Weariness itched across his skin, weighing down his limbs as he looked around him. He caught glimpses of the others, Thorin was roaring, charging the goblin ranks with Kili and Fili at his side. He saw Bilbo once, diving between the King's legs to catch an offending orc in the groin with Sting, allowing Thorin the moment he needed to take its head off. He'd grabbed the hobbit up by the middle, yelling for his nephews before he'd lost sight of them again.

_Dwalin… Where was Dwalin?_

He'd been fighting beside Dori and Nori when it'd happened; trading blows with a half dozen orcs when he'd looked to his right and caught sight of him.

Dwalin was there, separated from him by less than half a league, surrounded by what looked like half an army of orc-flesh. He was outnumbered and covered in gore, terrifying and magnificent in turn as he beat his breastplate, goading the orcs to charge him as he bellowed his defiance.

The wind carried the sound, thinning it out until it reached his ears, softer than when it'd started. It sounded like a death knell, a last stand, like one last charge before the world dimmed out to darkness. Fear gripped him. It was a solid living thing that clawed and howled underneath his skin. The man knew. He knew he wasn't going to make it, he knew and still he-

_No!_

He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees when a group of orcs surrounded his one. He was unable to stop it when a thick blade sliced across the small of Dwalin's back, biting deep with hungry, black steel as another got in a glancing blow, twisting a bone dagger deep into his side as Dwalin roared. Too busy battling the ones facing him to realize he'd been flanked from behind.

He felt the pain of it like it was his own when Dwalin fell to his knees. But more than anything, he felt the man's surprise. He felt his rage at being felled, his sorrow as the orcs around him shrieked with victory. But worse, he felt Dwalin's acceptance - his realization that he was dying a warrior's death as eternity stretched before them, taut like a bow string.

But by then he was already running. The muscles in his legs burning as he closed the distance between them. Dori was yelling something. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.

It all filtered through the bond unbidden, each thought as terrible as the last as Grasper slipped from Dwalin's fingers. The pitted iron rang, pitching high in his ears despite the distance as the man's axe fell across the blood-spattered rocks. But he pushed it back, lungs burning as he leaped over a tangle of dead, the fair blond hair of an elf wisping in the breeze as he passed.

The banners of the Lonely Mountain were on fire.

The orc raised its sword, glinting crimson in the dying light, about to bring it down for the final swing as Dwalin struggled, reaching for his fallen ax as another orc wrenched him backwards, gripping him by the beard as the foul thing forced him to bare his throat.

And for the first time since he'd entered the battlefield, he saw  _red_.

* * *

The cry that tore from his lips echoed across the battlefield. It heartened the hearts of those nearby as Ori flew head long into the tangle. He stood astride the fallen dwarf, ax swinging. Slicing and cutting until the orcs began to fall back, screeching and scrabbling backwards as the cry was echoed across the rocky plains – the voices of men, elves and dwarves briefly rising up as one as they faced the enemy with a new zeal.

A red dawn would rise, but it would not be bathed in their blood.

_Not their blood._

"Rukhs! Kahaza ai-menu! Ikhf id-ursu khazad! Mahmazar!"

* * *

"Dwalin!"

The pain of his wounds seared – bringing him to his knees as another needle-hot flash sunk deep into his side. He cried out when the blade twisted, ripping through his insides as it pierced through his bloodied armor.

Dully, he recognized the moment.  _His death was upon him._

The stench of orc was heady as a bony hand yanked him backwards, wrenching him up by his beard as a thick iron blade pressed against his throat.

He forced his eyes open. He would face his death. That was something he  _could_  control. He would return to the Great Forge where his kind had been fashioned knowingly and without fear. That was something no orc, no enemy could take from him. He wouldn't-

"Get up!  _Mahmazar!_ "

The world suddenly shifted and with a squeal, the orc holding him fell away. He blinked, losing time, because suddenly Ori was there, fighting beside him, above him, protecting him as he leapt across the distance and took out another orc with a single blow.

"Don't you dare die Dwalin Fundin-son, or I swear I'll let one of these orcs run me through just so I can spend  _eternity_  never letting you forget it!" the lad yelled, braids flying as he whirled in place, driving the orcs back as an elf – all long limbs and stark black hair, joined him.

The sound of arrows whistling through the air seemed somehow muted, as the lithe creature loosed one after another. He looked up, forcing his eyes to focus as a group of men signaled their allegiance, racing towards them as the tides of the battle began to turn in their favor.

He grunted, finding it in him to roll his eyes even as his sight began to fade _._

_After all, when the lad put it that way, how could he refuse?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> *"Baruk khazard! Du bekar!" = "Axes of the dwarves. To arms!"
> 
> *"Rukhs! Kahaza ai-menu! Ikhf id-ursu khazad! Mahmazar!" – = "Orcs! The dwarves are upon you! Feel the fire of the dwarves! Fight!"
> 
> * "Mahmazar" – "fight."


	9. Chapter 9

The battle was over, or at least the worst of it was behind them, when he started dragging Dwalin towards Erebor. He saw the others looming out of the dark, the moon high in the sky as a hundred different fires lit up the night. The wounded screamed, the dead slumbered, having earned their long rest.

He caught a dwarf he didn't recognize by the shoulder. He was young and unbloodied, carrying a water skin for the wounded. He sent him off, back the way he'd come with orders for a stretcher and three strong men to carry it. The dwarfling had taken one look at him and Dwalin, unconscious in his arms, before he nodded and scampered off in the direction the healing tents.

He lost track of time after that. He talked for a while, letting the words come without filter as he looked for something to bind the man's wounds. It felt important that he speak, he wasn't aware of the words, only that they continued. Thinking, perhaps, if the man had something to listen to, if he could reach him on some small level, it would be a tie to keep him here – with him.

He couldn't lose him.  _Not now_. Not when he'd finally realized-

Hot tears stung, welling up in the back of his eyes as he gently untangled a banner from around the arm of a man – a boy really, all wide sightless eyes and a shock of orange-red hair. His head throbbed as he pulled it free, ignoring the sudden pain as he wiped at the sweat rolling down from his temples.

He was only mildly surprised when his fingers came back smeared with red.

He tied the banner around the wound on Dwalin's side, pressing his hand against the thick cloth as pink tinged through the cotton-weave. " _Binganag_ ," he whispered, head bowed as he gathered him up, cradling Dwalin's head in his lap as the tears fell.

_Stay with me._

* * *

He snarled when hands fell on him, trying to wrench Dwalin away. He had Keeper in his hand faster than he could blink, pulled back to strike before Dori's voice finally permeated.

"Ori, shush, it's us. We've got you. You're alright. Oin is waiting at the tents; we have a stretcher, let us take him… Let us help for pity's sake!"

His brother's fingers were cold against his burning forehead and he leaned into them without thought. If he'd had it in him to care he might have wondered at that.  _Was Dori ill? Had something happened?_

"We have you lad, he's right here, you can see for yourself. Come on now," another voice said, Bofur maybe, as gentle hands pried his fingers away from Dwalin's jerkin.

He shook them off when they tried to help him stand, hissing as pain flared through him. But he refused to let it cripple him. Instead, he stumbled forward, one hand tight on the edge of the stretcher as they made their way towards the tents.

_His._

_Dwalin was his._

_It was so clear now._

He'd never felt like this before, so possessive and sure. His fingers ached as he sunk them deep into the edge of Dwalin's armor, feeling the warmth of him and distantly, the logical part of him knew why. Because  _that_  was Dwalin, that was what  _Dwalin_  felt. That need - that _desire_  was how Dwalin felt about  _him_  and by proxy, that trait was now his. It was a queer thing, to feel something so unlike yourself and yet embrace it regardless.

It was only an inch, a mere piece of the puzzle he'd been trying to solve ever since they'd met eyes in the Shire. But it was an inch he held onto fiercely.

He didn't realize they'd made it to the tents until the harsh tang of chemicals and poultices swirled above his head. He found himself kneeling beside Dwalin's stretcher, a thick fur around his shoulders as Oin cut through the makeshift bandage and inspected the wound.

"He's going to be alright, isn't he?" he asked, hating himself when the words came out sounding small, nearly swallowed by the whirl of activity around them. Faintly, he was aware of Bilbo protesting loudly off to the side, an elvish healer attempting to see to his wounds despite the fact that the hobbit seemed unwilling to leave Thorin's side.

But no one replied.

He blinked, watching as the others slowly trickled in. Gloin, Bifur and Bombur waited just outside the entrance, talking to a group of men with somber expressions. Thorin was laid out on the bed beside Dwalin's cot; Bilbo curled up at his side, bruised and battered as he carded his small little hands through the king's hair. He counted it a blessing that the king's chest rose and fell, it was a shallow but comforting rhythm. Fili and Kili were beside him, nursing wounds of their own, heavy-lidded and withdrawn as Kili's voice rose above the fray, calling out for someone named Tauriel as lists of the dead began to go up on the far wall.

Dori and Nori were on either side of him, close, but for once not coddling. There was something different in his bearing perhaps, something that lent their support but not their tongues. And for that, he was grateful. He was too divided. It was like his body and soul had been pulled too far, stretched in two different directions and now he was  _stuck_ , floating between them, present – aware, but unable to do anything about it.

"….Ori."

His head jerked up, minutes – maybe hours later, there was no way to tell. Oin was there, smearing some foul smelling paste across the wound on Dwalin's back. But it was Dwalin himself that captured his attention, conscious despite his hurts. His one's eyes were dark and glittering with fever as he reached out.

"Azyungel…" Dwalin whispered, one thick hand stretching out as he lurched forward. His one was calling for him, asking for him despite the haze of pain that haunted the backdrop of the man's face. He could see it, turning the dips and hollows gaunt and grey as the candle light flickered around them.

He froze in mid-motion, stopping himself before their fingers could touch – only a hair's breadth apart – yearning.  _All he would have to do was reach out and-_

He recoiled, reeling back like he'd been stung as Dori and Nori startled beside him. He shook himself, scrambling backwards, the fur slipping from his shoulders as he slammed into something –  _someone_  in his haste.

"Ori, what-"

_Mahal, he'd made a right mess of things hadn't he?_

If he did this now, if he reached out and took the man's hand, they would bond and Dwalin would be stuck with him for the rest of his life. And he  _couldn't_. Dwalin didn't know what he was asking. He didn't want him, not like that, not like how he-

_He'd fallen for him; he'd fallen for him when he'd promised himself he wouldn't._

It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. But he turned away regardless. He ran, fleeing the tent as hot tears blinded him, sending him stumbling, falling, ricocheting off walls, people, silent in his grief and horror as he flung himself as far away from his one as he could. For the man's sake, if not his, he wouldn't consign Dwalin to a life of misery, to being bound with someone that wasn't his one. The man was not his to claim. Not matter how much he wished he was.

_He'd dug his own hole and had left no way for him to get out of it._

Oin was yelling, something about a head wound and being a god damned fool but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He ran straight back out onto the battle and lost himself there. Lungs burning as the weight of everything that had happened fell on him at once. Each step he took away from the tents felt like a growing sore, like the edges of a broken wound stretching, splitting apart inch by inch as agony grew, building in his breast until, at last, he fell.

And for a long time, he knew nothing.

* * *

He wheezed, catching a brief glimpse of Ori's face before he rabbited. Blood-splattered and fearful as his hand remained where it was, heavy and outstretched across the blankets. Empty as the warmth of the man receded, withdrawing in a way that made him wonder if he'd ever been there in the first place. Oin shook him, trying to get him to focus as he yelled something at Gloin and the dwarf hurried over with more bandages.

_His one didn't want him._

That was the last thing he knew before darkness took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> *"Binganag," – "stay"
> 
> *"Azyungel" – "love" "love of loves"


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn't until the final battle was over, the elves and men of Dale sent on their way with promises of trade and a renewal of the trusts of old, that the company of Thorin Oakenshield - now King Under the Mountain - had  _finally_  had enough.

Honestly, they'd had their fill long before the Carrock, but had little opportunity to do anything before Mirkwood, Laketown and finally Smaug himself had forced their hand. But now, with Dwalin, still recovering, safely passed out thanks to one of Oin's more powerful sleeping draughts and Ori elbows deep in the ruins of the great library, the others had gathered in one of the lesser halls on a matter of great importance.

_Namely, how to fix this gods forsaken mess!_

"I thought for sure after the battle they'd-" Bofur began, unofficially starting off the secret meeting when silence ruled the table for longer than either dwarf or hobbit were strictly comfortable with.

"I'll say," Gloin broke in. "I lost a purse full of gold on that wager."

"Serves you right, nasty habit, betting," Dori sniffed, tutting a bit as Nori rolled his eyes, using the tines of his fork to clean his nails beside him.

"Oy! I seem to remember someone asking the odds just last week," Gloin pointed out indignantly, waving a leg of pheasant accusingly as Fili and Kili made a point to start refilling everyone's ale.

"Yes, but I didn't bet, there's a difference, you know! Besides, this is my brother we're talking about; I deserve to know the odds," Dori returned, looking slightly miffed at the suggestion as Bilbo wriggled in his seat, earning a strained look from Thorin as the hobbit's curls bounced becomingly.

"Only Ori and Dwalin could turn something so  _simple_ into such a god awful mess," Bombur sighed, munching contentedly on a joint of salted pork, using everyone's distraction to claim the best cuts for himself.

"It's rare, I'll grant you. But every once in a while a bond needs a helping hand to solidify," Balin said wisely.

"I'm really not sure we should interfere," Dori fussed. "I mean, let's be honest, what we're proposing here is nothing less than subterfuge."

"Well, all this waiting isn't doing them much good either - the strain alone," Thorin stated, speaking up for the first time from his seat at the head of the table. "Mahal knows why they are resisting, but this  _has_  to come to an end. And  _soon_  or they are going to do themselves irreparable damage."

The company stewed on this for a moment, taking to their tankards and plates as they considered their King's words. It was widely known that Thorin's sister, Dis, mother of his heirs was of the soul-bonded. She'd happened upon her one quite by accident, nearly half a century before Smaug. He'd been a wandering minstrel from the Iron Hills, the leader of a small troupe of performers and musicians that had become quite popular in the intervening decade.

Destan had been a comely thing with a handsome blond beard carefully woven with thin lines of finely beaten copper. He'd been personable, likeable and was well known to be a fair master, both in matters of business and the internal politics that comes from traveling from one kingdom to the next. The story of their meeting had quickly become legend. He and his company had been granted entrance for the season and naturally, offered their services to the King's Court that evening, promising a night of song and entertainment for all.

And entertaining it had been, though, likely not of the sort that either party had been expecting. For when Destan approached the royal table, Dis had taken one look at him and fallen clear off her chair. Destan, for his part, had clutched at his right hip, teeth gritted as an arc of pure gold shone through his layers.

You could've heard a  _pin_  drop when Dis poked her head out from underneath the table, ignoring Frerin and Thorin who were trying their best to pull her off the flagstones. Everyone was too busy staring at the mark, high on her breast, shining through the elegant scooped collar of her dress.

Dis had punched him clean in the nose and flounced off, nose in the air when the dwarf had stumbled within reach. Sending the entire kingdom into an uproar as everyone started milling around – yelling – as Thorin and Frerin collapsed back into their chairs, shaking with silent laughter.

He wasn't sure who'd looked more surprised, Thrain or Destan as they'd watched her go. The blond was clearly love-struck already as he bled all over his performing silks, ignoring his employees as they'd tried to sop up the worst of the damage as the entire hall descended into chaos.

They'd been married within a fortnight and utterly inseparable from that night on.

Thror had been furious, having to completely scrap a tenuous treaty with the Fire-beards of the Far East - one he'd been hoping to secure with a marriage between his only granddaughter and the Fire-beard's eldest son. But there had been nothing for it. Mahal's Script was clear. And despite their less than favorable beginnings, Dis had taken it upon herself to seek him out a few hours later, setting his broken nose herself.

The mountain's rumor mills had all but exploded with the news – some even going so far as to suggest that Destan had been so taken with her, he hadn't realized she was royalty until the following morning when he was summoned to Thror's chambers to begin the marriage negotiations.

There was a sigh from the other end of the table before Nori flicked one of his brother's braids and made to speak.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Dor. But they're tying themselves into knots," Nori began, breaking the silence. "Ori is projecting so badly I get anxious doing anything more complicated than taking a piss," Nori added, slamming his tankard down on the table with a bit more force than necessary.

Dori winced at the crudeness but didn't disagree.

"It's worse than that. The way they're going, they're running the risk of the fading," Oin said, sobering the table almost immediately. "As friends and family, it is our duty to see this sorted."

"It's settled then," Fili broke in. "Something  _must_  be done."

"But what?" Kili parroted, hair mussed from rubbing his braids together in worry. The young dwarf was especially distraught after he'd witnessed Dori and Nori running after their brother that day in the tents. They'd brought him back hours later on a stretcher, bloodied and pale. Oin had said a head wound and the stress of the unrealized bond were to blame. Still, it had taken three days for the dwarf to come out of it, Dwalin even longer.

"We could lock them in the vaults and not let them out until they've sorted it out for themselves," Fili proposed, stroking the edges of his beard thoughtfully, looking more like he was thinking aloud rather than seriously considering such a plan.

"Too risky," Oin interjected, jamming his trumpet more firmly into his ear, "not to mention too simple. They're stubborn, not dim."

Bifur growled something, smacking the table emphatically. Dori's refusal was swift. "Certainly not! That was hardly acceptable in the old days! Besides how do you propose we convince the two of them to drop trou in the mud pits and not wonder why? Heat addled or not, that's not exactly subtle."

"Lacks a certain finesse anyway," Balin agreed, patting ale out of his beard as Kili spat a mouthful clear across the table, gaping at Bifur with a macabre sort of curiosity. Fili just looked around desperately for another tankard of ale to drown himself in.

Bifur grumbled.

"I don't care  _how_  you met your wife!" Dori shrilled. "Our brother is not committing a felony his first week under the mountain! Not even for the greater good!" ignoring Nori when his brother snorted into his ale.

"I believe the weight of the issue rests in the fact that Dwalin's never met a problem he can't intimidate," Balin murmured, his sigh long suffering as he exchanged a knowing glance with Thorin from across the table.

"Ori is  _not_  a problem!" Dori butted in, slamming his fist on the table with such force that Gloin and Fili curled their hands protectively around their tankards.

"That is not what I meant! In his eyes Ori _is_  a problem purely because he has no idea what to do with him. Neither of them could ask for a better match and yet, here we are!" Balin returned, a sober silence reining in his wake.

Kili twisted his braids in distress.

Dori just looked slightly mollified.

"Arguing that point is getting us nowhere," Oin interjected, wisely steering the conversation away from rougher waters.

"Well, be that as it may, this cannot continue," Thorin stated, kicking out and stretching backwards, clearly trying to get comfortable as Bilbo moved their plates safety out of the way.

"Agreed!" everyone yelled, raising their tankards in unison, finally able to agree on something as they drained them as one.

* * *

"They  _are_  a bit of an odd pair," Bilbo spoke up, earning himself the attention of all as he fiddled with a crust of bread. Thorin just looked ridiculously content as he nudged another plate of sweet bread in the hobbit's direction.

"Not as odd as you'd think," Bofur replied, hat flapping this way and that in a clear negative. "You didn't see the lad on the battlefield. Scribe or not, he took to a battle ax like he'd been born to swing it."

"Aye," Bombur agreed, "Ori's strong willed and sharp when needed, but easy and sweet until his temper's been riled. They're a good match by all accounts."

"True, the lad has talent. There's no denying," Gloin agreed, tossing a cookie towards Kili who was still sporting the expression of a particularly miserable looking puppy – staring moodily into his ale until the treat caught him square on the nose. "Pity he has his heart set on being a paper-scratcher. I know at least a dozen masters who'd jump at the chance to train him."

"We are getting off track," Fili reminded, "we need to come up with some sort of plan and soon. Oin can only keep Dwalin in the infirmary for so long and if we don't act now, the way they're going, one of them could do something stupid, like leave or worse-"

"Worse!? What could be worse than leaving!?" Kili cried. "We only just got here!"

"Best not think of that, laddie," Gloin returned, refilling Kili's tankard with a generous measure. "Besides, we aren't at that point just yet."

"I can't blame them, makes sense, really," Bilbo commented, looking thoughtful as he considered the matter logically, mentally reviewing all their interactions over the past few months.

"How so?" Thorin asked, genuinely curious as he favored the hobbit with an indulgent look, letting Bilbo refill his goblet before he took healthy swallow, sling tucked carefully at his side.

"Well, think about it, two dwarves who've never met. Couldn't be more opposite, with no common ground, nothing to base a relationship on other than their current circumstances and they suddenly discover - before they can even so much as say hello – that they have this bond of yours," Bilbo continued, stabbing a piece of tater with his fork as if to lend credence to his point.

"But that's how it's  _supposed_  to work, laddie!" Oin almost howled, beating his fists on the table as Bofur and Bombur slammed their heads together in sheer frustration. Bifur just muttered darkly in Khuzdul.

Balin huffed into his beard. "I know my brother. He is one of the most stubborn dwarves I've ever met. I have little doubt he is under the mistaken belief he doesn't deserve your brother," he replied, nodding towards the Ri brothers before continuing. "And if I know the lad at all, he is under the same impression."

Bilbo perked up at this, looking like he was about to say something before Nori cleared his throat.

The dwarf was deep in his pipe, but unusually somber when he made to speak. "Just before Ori was born, our mother came down with the fever. She was a few months away from her date, but the healer told her, if there was a chance for both of them to pull through, it had to be now. She was already so weak. We tried to talk sense into her, to make her understand it was a long shot at best. But she wouldn't hear of anything else. She was determined to bring another child into the world and would settle for nothing less."

"But what the healer didn't tell her, when he gave her the herbs to speed it along, was that the babe might be born, but likely wouldn't last the night. Hope for the best, but don't dare for a miracle – ain't that right Dor?" Nori continued, pausing as a wreath of smoke filtered through the air above his head.

"He was born small, just like you'd expect from coming too early. But he came out of our mother squalling - _fighting_." Nori insisted, knuckles rapping smartly across the table as he gritted out the last word.

"Aye and mind he was as polite as anything while she was carrying him," Dori broke in, steepling his fingers. "Very little fuss. Mother always said he was the easiest of the three."

"And sure, he made a right mess of things," Nori snorted, "trying to come out arse first until the healer put him to rights, but he arrived all the same. _He made it through the night._ We were told to expect two deaths –  _two -_ but Ori pulled through," Nori finished, using the respectful silence to knock a pip of ash from his pipe, taking a generous sip from his tankard as the words aired out.

"Not only that, he went on to become the youngest scribe in over six hundred years to be apprenticed to a master. Before he was even of age!" Dori added, all fierce pride and well deserved smugness as he looked around at the others – nodding.

"And with good reason," Balin interjected. "Mahal blessed me with the foresight to recognize his talent and be able to snatch him up before anyone else could. The lad is still quite coveted in the historical circles, especially after his paper on the difference between-"

"The point is," Nori interrupted, "I will be  _god damned_  if we're going to lose him just because the two of them are too stubborn to untangle their heads from each other's arses to actually  _see_ one another," Nori growled, finishing to a round of 'here-heres' and 'quite rights!' as the hall rang with agreement.

"Now, all we need is a plan!" Kili replied, hopeful expression falling when the circle of dwarrows fell silent, all wrinkled brows and furrowed expressions. Thorin thunked his head back against the head rest in despair, cursing Dwalin and his block-headedness as Bifur sunk one of his throwing knives hilt deep into the table and  _twisted_.

Bilbo just smiled, looking around him with the air of a wine-master about to present a particularly rare vintage.

"Gentlemen, I believe I have an idea…"


	11. Chapter 11

Things had been decided on pretty quickly after that. Bilbo and Thorin had delegated the tasks, Dori and Oin had set the stage, and somehow, the details of said conversation were still something of an ale-addled mystery to him - thatwas how Nori found himself waiting outside the infirmary two days later.

He twisted his wrist, smiling as one of his blades shimmied out into his palm. He twirled the thin little pig-sticker between his fingers as he waited, deep in thought. Today was to be Dwalin's first day out of the infirmary after the Battle of the Five Armies, and Oin was insistent their plan be put into action immediately. Indeed, it was a testament to the warrior's state when one considered the fact that he could have bullied his way to freedom nearly three days ago and been let off with a strong warning to take it easy.

It was perhaps that same lack of fuss that had caused everyone to agree – it had to be now. Dwalin had never taken coddling very well; even on the odd occasion when he'd woken up and still been in the process of being sewn back together. But this time? Well, by all accounts, he'd barely caused a ripple. No grumbling or cursing at the nurses. No death threats. No escape attempts. Apparently there really  _was_  a first time for everything.

Thorin and Balin had been practically beside themselves in worry.

He sighed, watching the hustle and bustle as Dain's folk scuttled to and fro – helping where they could. There was already talk of rebuilding, with missives being sent far and wide through the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, bidding the people of Erebor to return home at last.

He'd barely seen Ori since he'd slipped out of the infirmary a few days after the battle. And for all intents and purposes, his brother had shut down. He forgot to eat, bathe, change -  _Mahal, even sleep!_  Dori was having conniptions, practically force feeding the dwarf when he could find him. But Ori was not to be swayed, he seemed to have made up his mind to bury his head in the sand – or should he say, books – sorting through the ruins of the main library with a fervor that made even  _him_ uncomfortable.

He breathed out slowly, forcing his frayed nerves to calm; the last few weeks had been hard on everyone. But Ori couldn't go on like this and neither could Dwalin. Oin was right. This had to work. Hell, at this point, there was very little he  _wouldn't_ do just to get Ori to  _smile_ again _._

The corner of his lips quirked up in wry amusement as he turned the thought over in his mind.  _No pressure, Nori._

It wasn't like he hadn't taken on challenging assignments before. But this was different. This was his baby brother. He tested the sharpness of the blade with his thumb, laving at the blood that rose up as his tongue chased the bitter tart. He still wasn't exactly convinced that Dwalin was right for him, but this wasn't about  _his_  happiness, it was about  _Ori's_.

If Dwalin was Ori's one, that was good enough for him.

He didn't like Dwalin, but he disliked him the least of the guardsmen he'd come to know over the years. The warrior had been good to him - as good as one  _could_  be considering that more often than not, he was the one hauling him in for questioning or shoving him into a cramped cell for the night. The man had always been fair, loyal to his calling and just when it was required of him.

He perked up, kicking off from the wall when Kili flittered past, sending him a furtive thumbs-up before joining Fili on the other side of the hall.  _That was the signal._   _Dwalin was coming._

"Oy, Dwalin! Over here!" he called, gesturing over to the crumbled pillar he was leaning against as the warrior exited the infirmary in a huff, irritation hanging over him like a dark cloud as he pulled his furs tight around his shoulders. And for that, he certainly couldn't blame him, the mountain was still cold as ice. They were still working to get the main furnaces dug out from under the rubble – it would probably be another few days before the boilers could be lit.

"What?" Dwalin grated, distracted as he paused, tugging at the splint Oin had wrapped around his broken thumb until the whole thing came loose. He tossed it behind his shoulder as an indignant cluck issued from one of the orderlies that'd seen him to the door.

"Thorin sent me, something about a security concern he wanted to inform you about," he drawled, pausing for a moment before adding the bait. "That is, if 'yer well enough," he finished, pretending to be absorbed with something over his shoulder as the warrior's gaze darkened.

"I'm fine," he growled, shouldering his way towards him, "what sort of security concern? Elves givin' us trouble already?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Fili and Kili slipping away, running like a fire drake was on their heels as they set off to inform the others. He slipped his knife back up his sleeve with a movement too quick for the casual observer to notice.  _So far, so good._

"You see a crown on my head?" he snorted, leading the way down the hall, towards the royal chambers. "How should I know?"

"Thorin  _did_  appoint you Royal Spymaster, did he not?" Dwalin pointed out, lengthening his strides until they were walking shoulder to shoulder, sporting such a dark expression that it sent unfamiliar dwarrow beetling out of their way, clearing the path in front of them as everyone gave them a wide berth.

They continued in silence for a few beats before-

"…Unless it's something  _you_ did?" Dwalin remarked, eying him suspiciously as they passed one of the main halls. They took the first left, down what had once been a servant's corridor. It would lead them directly towards the royal wing, it had been barely used or noticed since they'd arrived and thus, perfect for their plan.

"You insult me with the very question," he replied, sniffing a bit before winking roguishly as he took the lead down the narrow hall. But the dwarf just stared back at him, muzzily, almost disinterested in fact.

His eyes narrowed. Because instead of a cuff on the head and a growl, all he got was an indifferent snort and silence. He took the man's measure as Dwalin kept pace behind him – using the dusty mirrors that lined either side of the hall, barely visible in the dim torch-light. And privately, he was shocked at what he saw reflecting back at him.

There was a dullness in the dwarrow's expression, a vacant sort of apathy that made something in him smoulder. It was a painful empty ache he could feel right down to his core. It felt wrong, like a sickness festering in living flesh. He shuddered and pulled back, trying to shake the feeling away, only to grow uncomfortable when it lingered.

He'd believed Oin when the healer said it had to be now, but he hadn't realized it was  _this_ bad!

He'd heard about the fading, how dwarfs – otherwise healthy and hearty with no visible wounds or history of moodiness - literally stopped living. They lost their drive, their  _fire_. He'd seen something like it once, during his time underground in the Iron Hills. He'd briefly been part of a group that regularly smuggled a dam – elderly but spry - to and from a hidden passage under the city cells. Her mate, an old dwarrow of almost three hundred was serving a ten year sentence – what for, he hadn't asked. But bad enough that when he'd been admitted he hadn't wanted to risk listing her as his bond mate.

There was a small hole in the cobble floor that could be pried up, and from that small gap, they would spend hours doing little more than holding each other's hands. It had been the easiest money he'd ever made and the most conflicted he'd felt every time he'd collected it. There had been something in the air when their fingers had met, something comforting and warm, soothing in a way that made him wonder when he'd gotten so restless.

Even then, decades before Balin had even spread so much as a hint about Thorin's quest, his mind had never strayed far from Ori and his mark. It was said that when a soul-bonded couple finally met their other half, something of a tempest forms up in their wake – a pull –  _a longing_. It was not considered wise to prolong it and yet, Ori and Dwalin had taken it to an extreme even  _he_ hadn't foreseen.

They were both pig-headed, in their own way, but frankly, he'd had his fill of it by the  _Thunder Battle_. The next few months after that had been downright torturous, and he knew he wasn't the only one to think so.

It was only when he heard the soft patter of Bilbo's hairy feet from the main hall that he realized it was time to put the next part of their plan into motion. He grinned when he heard Ori fussing, Bilbo had coaxed out him of the library somehow – that had been part of the plan he'd lost in the ale-haze.

Now all he had to do was that which he did best.

_Lie._


	12. Chapter 12

When they stepped out into the main hall, everything narrowed down into a matter of seconds. Time was of the essence and Nori didn't hesitate to sidle close, almost crowding the warrior into the wall as Dwalin sent him an unimpressed look.

' _This is for Ori,'_  Nori thought, giving himself a shake as Dwalin glared down his nose at him. He had to force himself not to look their way when Bilbo and Ori rounded the corner – half a heartbeat later, he put his hand on Dwalin's arm.

"I've always admired you, you know," he began, using the dwarf's shock and complete lack of reaction to step closer. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a flitter of movement. Ori stopped short, ignoring whatever it was Bilbo had been saying as soft brown eyes fixed unerringly on them – a good twenty paces down the hall. Dwalin hadn't noticed them yet.

"You were always good to me, even when you were hauling me in. Don't think I didn't notice," he hummed. The tone might have been conversational if it weren't for the hand he kept on Dwalin's arm, thumb now rubbing back and forth – slowly.

The papers Ori had clutched to his chest crinkled. The brittle pages creaked, splitting under the strain as the little dwarf's fist tightened around them. He didn't seem to be listening at all as Bilbo tugged patiently at his elbow. But then again, at this point, he didn't have to. Bilbo only had one thing left to do before-

"I used to wonder sometimes, why…" he added, deciding to use the pause to his advantage. "After all, you let me off more than once, like that time you caught me kipping from that Farin fellow in Eres Lund. You know the one, that clanless piece of troll-barf that was hoarding all the grain, trying to cause a shortage and sell at a premium," he reminded, well aware that the tension humming between them was high, liable to spark even as Dwalin started to edge backwards.

' _Sell it Nori'_ , he reminded himself.

"Remember that one time, in the city cells?" he hummed, lying through his teeth as Dwalin looked down at him, frowning now, trying to wrestle his arm free. But he held fast, slinking closer, enough that he could feel the man's ragged breaths on his skin.

"You slammed me up against the bars, cursing, filth sliding across your tongue like silk sliding off a fisherman's daughter and I wondered then, well-" he paused, letting the words sink in as he reached up, one hand resting on the center of Dwalin's chest, before he leaned in and  _stroked._

He squeezed his eyes shut reflexively as a wounded little gasp rose up from just ahead.  _That did it._  Hopefully his brother would forgive him. _Eventually._

Dwalin's head snapped up, a rearing cut-off movement that followed the sound before-

You didn't need to see it to know when Dwalin finally caught sight of him. It was a tangible, living thing that he could feel underneath his skin - right down to bone and blood. The tension was like a knife twisting in his rib cage, the split second before the thunder bolt, the anticipation of a sweet just before it sparks across the tongue.

They looked at each other like they were the only ones in the room.

He took an unconscious step backwards, all too aware of the hush that'd fallen; it was the same prickly, soft hair-raising type of feeling that edges in before a thunderstorm. The air above their heads grew sullen, heavy -  _anticipatory_.

And naturally, that was the exact same moment that Bilbo cleared his throat, speaking like there hadn't been an interruption at all as he tangled his thumbs in his braces and rocked on his heels. "Well, Ori, thank you for the most  _amazing_  evening," Bilbo chirped, "I do so enjoy our time together."

He couldn't help but grin when a strangled sound rose up from the other end of the hall as Bilbo leaned in for the kill – getting right up on his toe-tips as he pressed a chaste little kiss across the underside of Ori's jaw.

Dwalin's back stiffened, shoulders hunching up like an offended cat.

The papers Ori had been clutching slipped from his fingers, fluttering across the floor in a muted shower of age-yellowed pages.

The sound of Dwalin's teeth grinding together was audible, even from the distance.

Ori's hand came up reflexively, knuckling along the underside of one of his braids, a few copper pieces shy of where Bilbo had kissed him. His brother's face was a wounded mask of confusion, anger, hurt and uncertainty as Ori's eyes fell on where his hand was still curled around the warrior's bicep. He had to stop himself from grinning for the pure joy of it.

_That was his brother! The one he'd been missing ever since the final battle. Ach, it was a sight worth savoring!_

Dwalin, on the other hand, said nothing –  _did nothing_. In fact, he couldn't be certain, but for a handful of moments he was convinced the dwarf had actually forgotten how to breathe.

He could have  _sung_ the hobbit's praises when Ori's lower lip jutted out in a clear pout, caught between his teeth. Worrying the words he clearly wanted to shout like a baby warg gnawing and prancing around an old bone.

_Ooo, he knew that look. He was about to get a bloody earful of-_

"Nori! What do you think you're doing, how-" Ori began, bristling up like a disgruntled hare as he took a step forward, eyes fixed on the spot where his hand met Dwalin's tunic.

All that was needed now was one more thing to tip the scales and they would be-

"Don't I get a kiss then?" Bilbo asked hopefully, innocent as pie and twice as sweet as he leaned up, lips already half puckered as Ori twisted away – distracted - breaking their long stare.

His brother was gaping down at the hobbit in mortified embarrassment, clearly confused but Dwalin, for his part, was too far gone to either notice or care. Because the second the words aired out, Dwalin gave up on words entirely and with a weighty roar, a bellow worthy of any war cry, he  _charged._

Ori squeaked, whirling back around. There was guilt there, churning in the back of his brother's eyes, guilt and confusion. But that wasn't the end of it, no. Because there was also a challenge lighting up the shades, darkening the iris's until they expanded past the black, flooding his gaze with heat. There was something  _daring_  in that look, something ready and promising retribution even as Ori started to move forward himself. Seeing red as Dwalin roared for Bilbo's head and Ori gritted his teeth, eyes promising a slow death as they fixed right on-

_Oh, damn._

_Where was Thorin?_

Dwalin was only three foot lengths away from a full on crash when – seemingly out of nowhere – the entire hallway  _exploded_  into a spinning hive of activity. The others, hidden away in the rooms that lined the halls, piled out of the doors at once.

Thorin and Bifur intercepted Dwalin in mid-run, tripping and shoving him so that he fell through the open door at the end of the hall. And good thing too, because his meaty fist had only just closed around a puff of air that Bilbo's curly head had been occupying seconds before as the warrior lost his balance and tripped over the threshold.

Bilbo, now safe in Thorin's good arm, was toted off to safety, leaving room for Dori and Gloin to snag Ori by the armpits and toss him in after. He joined them as they bolted the door, piling against it so that neither dwarf could escape.

He winced when Dwalin roared from somewhere deep in the room, revenge thwarted. The sound of large boot soles skidding across age-worn stone echoed, loud and discomforting as the warrior careened through the dust. There was a moment of silence, then-

"You complete son of an orc, Dwalin Fundinson!" Ori shrilled, the words slightly muffled by a deafening thud that echoed from deep within the room. Sounding suspiciously like the opposing wall as Dwalin bit off a curse and the meaty sound of a fist meeting unprotected flesh carried through the thick wooden door.

"You think its gunna work?" Kili asked hopefully. The young dwarf spat out a mouthful of his brother's hair, tangled together with Fili and Bofur in a heap against the door, expression bright despite the fact that the sound of breaking crockery and angry yelling could be heard clear down the opposing hall.

Bifur muttered something, bracing the door with a wooden beam for good measure before slapping his arm emphatically.

Oin just nodded, agreeing. "For their sake I hope so."


	13. Chapter 13

He had about half a second between Dwalin's charge and Dori and Gloin tossing him through the door to internalize the fact that this  _wasn't_  him. In fact, it wasn't even _Dwalin_. For all the warrior's roughness, this feeling, this blind need to take, claim, hurt and remake, was foreign to the both of them.

_He needed._

_Oh, he needed so badly._

It rose up in the back of his throat like a burbling laugh, a cut off cry. It was desperation and desire. It was love, longing, hate and hope all at once. It was a piece of string stretched just an inch too far, snapping back with more force than you were ready for. It was your bones, charred and dancing with embers as you crawl out of the coals - desperate for a final rest you didn't have it in you to name.

But then, Dwalin was skidding through the dust, stumbling, turning back around to face him, red faced and growling as the door slammed shut. And in that moment, all rational thought  _fled_.

* * *

The air was dragon's fire.

His breath was ash.

And he wanted their burglar's head on a bloody platter.

Thorin and his kingly titles be  _damned_. The hobbit was  _his_.

The world he saw before him, before Bilbo had– was muted, narrowed down like the blinders men-folk put on their draft horses. Anger and rage were familiar companions as they rose up, thick in the back of his throat, sending strength flowing back into weakened muscles, now only dimly registering the hurts and tiredness that had existed before as purpose settled across his shoulders with all the weight of an iron anvil.

He sucked in a breath, feeling oddly like it was the first one he'd taken since that moment in the healer's tents. The same one that had gotten stuck in his throat when he'd caught the dwarf's expression – head bowed with tears trickling down his bloody cheeks.

Because Ori was  _his_.

The lad was his in every way that mattered and he'd be god damned if he was going to let a hobbit, of all creatures, steal him away. He forgot everything that had happened before, the months of pining and hard-headedness that had led to that moment on the battlefield when Ori's hand had firmed around his shoulder, when he'd  _felt_ -

He had to admit he _hadn't_  been expecting it when Thorin and Bifur whirled out of the shadows. Honestly, he was surprised he'd missed it. He might have taken leave of his senses but that was no excuse for sloppiness. And yet, he only had eyes for Ori, watching as heat simmered in the back of the lad's gaze, harsh, yet welcoming. Something that stoked the fire that'd been burning in his mind's eye ever since he'd caught sight of him in the Shire.

He nearly tripped through the door, propelled inside by Thorin's good arm and a smart kick to the shin from Bifur. He was barely aware of the sound as Dori and Gloin threw Ori in behind him. Instead, he picked himself off the floor and whirled around, hunkering down in a fighter's crouch, uncertain of what was in store as the high-pitch of Ori's ragged breathing sounded out behind him.

He'd only just turned around, an overwhelming, single-minded sort of purpose ringing through him, singing in his blood like raw iron to a maker's mallet, when Ori did something he  _hadn't_  anticipated.

The lad just fucking  _pounced_.

* * *

He was on Dwalin before he realized what had just happened. All he knew was that Nori had- that Dwalin had _let_  Nori-

Red rose up, thick and choking. It was jealousy, he realized, rage, possession, lust and  _his_. Dwalin was _his_. His scent was  _his_. Everything about him was  _his_ , the blood that sung just under the skin, the twitch of lips stretching over bared teeth.  _His_.

"-with Nori!? How could you!" he yelled, sending them crashing into the wall as Dwalin reared back, trying to shake him off and get the upper hand but he was too quick. He used his smaller frame to his advantage; clinging, arms around the warrior's neck, legs tightening around the small of his back, the exact spot the man couldn't quite reach.

Momentum carried them into the nearest wall. He hit it back first, crushed under the weight of the taller dwarf as Dwalin bellowed, using the stone like a brace as he tried to scrape him off. There was a moment when the man had him squashed up against the stone-work, all flailing arms and bitten off curses before they slammed against a dresser, a bedside table, the door, then back across the wall again with bruising force.

He'd lost his advantage somewhere in between the wall and the dresser, hold loosening just enough that the man had managed to grab one of his arms. So, naturally, he did the only thing that seemed to make sense at the time. He sunk his teeth deep into the dwarf's neck and  _kept_  them there.

For one brief, rather impossible moment, Dwalin stilled. The shoulders trying to throw him off stopped in mid-crush. The vibrations of his answering growl coursed across the warrior's throat like a warning,  _a promise_  – before Dwalin surged backward. His back hit the wall with enough force to stun him, barely aware of the seconds that lapsed between the moment when Dwalin's hand found the back of his sweater and-

The force of it sent him catapulting clear over the man's shoulders, sliding across the stone with the distressed sound of tearing yarn before he scrambled to his feet. He licked his lips, tasting Dwalin's blood on his tongue as a thin rivulet of red trickled down from the man's throat.

His mark was throbbing,  _burning_. He clutched at his arm as they glared at one another, each daring the other to make the first move as a discomforting silence reigned.

And if, however distantly, he was aware of the man doing the same thing, one fist pressing tightly against his own mark, high on his breast – just above his heart, he couldn't pretend he  _wasn't_  affected.

* * *

It was Ori who moved first, darting forward all hunchbacked and stooped shoulders, like he intended to smash him clear through the opposing wall. Only this time he was ready, a shaky sort of clarity rocketing through him at the sight of the lad clutching his arm permeated through the haze.

He used the energy from the youngling's charge against him, whipping them around until he had Ori pinned against the wall. There was a bitten off curse and an indecent  _squirm_ before he managed to grab the lad's fists, holding them off to the side as Ori practically  _snarled._ The fighter in him piqued.

He wasn't good with words. If he was being honest, he'd never been. Actions and deeds had always been his forte, his skill of choice. But now, there was something he  _had_  to say- something he  _had_  to do that would solve all this. Something he knew instinctively would make everything else slot into place. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't know how to-

"Ori, lad, I-" he bit out, almost stuttering as bright brown eyes fastened on him, speaking like every word was an effort as he forced them out one by one.

One of Ori's hands wormed free, splaying out across his wrist in a flutter of bruised tips and ink smudges. He tried to make a grab for him, mindful of the bite on his neck and the ache in his skull that had proven beyond a doubt that the lad was stronger than he looked.

The fumbling was awkward, aiming to hurt rather than soothe. And frankly, he was no better, too angry to let it go. He growled, biting off something in Khudzul that made Ori's lip curl.

He reached forward, grabbing the lad's hand before his fist could connect. Thick knuckles rasped, catching against his larger ones as the dwarf startled, pulling way. Only, somehow, their fingers tangled together instead and quite suddenly - the aching sore that had been burning in the heart of him ever since that moment in the Shire,  _settled_.

_Oh._

* * *

He let go of a ragged gasp when their fingers joined. And like the lightning-fast arc of a reflex, something in him  _surged_. He felt,  _well_ , actually, he didn't know  _what_ he felt. All he knew was that it was good, right and  _Mahal_ a long time coming.

His mark hummed, pleasant and sated just underneath the skin as Dwalin pulled him in all the tighter - fingers clenching and unclenching around him like he just couldn't get enough.

Anger forgotten, he took a moment to just _breathe_. Welcoming it as the foul feelings of rage and jealously filtered through him like water through a sieve. All quickly replaced by that feeling – the one he'd been missing this entire time.  _Dwalin._

He reached out tentatively, prodding at that awkward little tangle that existed in the back of his mind – the one that'd flowered the day they'd first met eyes and had been fading ever since. Only this time, instead of uncertainty, instead of confusion, surety, contentment and warmth surged forward, surrounding him in a heady blanket of mirth and pleasure as the bond between them strengthened – slotting together as Dwalin shuddered against him.

It felt like the feeling he'd been missing the day they'd tip-toed through Erebor's heart, feeling the smoothness of stone against his fingers as he looked around him in awe. Erebor had been the hall of his fathers. The origins of his family line existed  _here_. And yet, despite all the grandeur, despite the years spent imagining – longing for a home his brothers talked so fondly of, there had been something missing. He'd felt no connection, no feelings of kinship or belonging.  _Until now._

Because this? This felt like they'd  _finally_ made it home.

He was about to say something, perhaps something about how they were still pressed up against the wall, hyper aware that their hips were moving – grinding against each other shallowly -  _accidentally_ , before he was brought up short. He was distracted by the bright sheen of gold peeking out through a tear in the man's tunic.

Emboldened, he reached forward, parting the laces of Dwalin's shirt with unsteady hand. And Dwalin  _let_ him, watching as he thumbed back the ruined fabric and revealed the mark in all its glory. He sighed when he saw it, tracing around the edges with all the familiarity of being reacquainted with an old friend. It seemed strange that his one had borne this mark all his life, when he'd only purchasing the journal a month before they'd set out for the Shire.

It seemed as though Mahal had designed not only their match, but their meeting as well.

He let his fingers – blunt and inky from his time in the library – ghost across the runes, a hair's breadth from touching as he watched the dwarf's face from under the veil of his fringe. Unlike what Dori and Nori might have thought, he hadn't exactly been wasting his time in the library. In fact, he'd been brushing up on his lore. There had been this one passage in the book he'd been reading, before Bilbo had found him, that detailed what had happened between a soul-bonded couple who'd been kept from one another to the point of-

Before he could lose his courage, he pressed down, palm resting on the mark as a feeling – not unlike a thunderclap on a clear day – rippled through him.

It was beautiful and stupid and he was pretty sure he'd forgotten how to breathe. But if he knew one thing for certain right now, it was that he didn't care. He didn't care as long as he had this,  _him_ , as long as he  _always_  had this.

_Mahal, it was almost too much, he didn't know how to–_

The resulting feeling sent molten warmth flowing through the bond, enough that the strength of it sent them tumbling to the ground. He couldn't help but laugh when, caught off guard, Dwalin's legs gave out underneath him, sending them scrambling backwards with a comical flailing of clutching limbs and half-undone clothing.

He wriggled out from under a thick arm, wheezing for breath as he tried to hold it in. But it was no use. He giggled, rearranging himself around the larger dwarf as Dwalin muttered something unintelligible into the floorboards. Unable to stop himself when the older man started shaking, rattling the eaves as he snorted helplessly - trying and failing to lever them both up.

In the end, they remained where they'd fallen, in a heap beside the wall, hands curled around each other's marks – content to simply soak it in as contentment, love and belonging settled in to stay.

It felt like warm mittens on a cold day, the taste of ale, tart on his tongue. It reminded him of the smell of his brother's braiding oils and a thousand other things that made no sense to him but he embraced anyway, sensing Dwalin in the wings of each and every one.

"I've waited for you a long time, son of Ri," Dwalin finally growled, seeming to find his tongue as the laughter gradually subsided and something else, something darker – flushed and needy rose to the forefront.

"You are mine. No one else will have you while I draw breath. Understand?"

He answered by letting go of a raspy purr, bearing his neck as he felt the air between them grow heavy –  _possible._ He scraped his fingers down the small of Dwalin's back when the man darted down, dropping a surprisingly chaste kiss across the swathe of throat he'd been offered.

He smiled, dopy and loose as something nudged above the fog, illusive and slow to take root. He had a split second to realize how blind they'd been, how  _stupid._ Before he seized Dwalin by the beard, pressing him hard to the floorboards and kissed him for all he was worth. Unwilling to waste another second as Dwalin groaned into his mouth and matched him.

He'd taken the man's demeanor for refusal and dislike and Dwalin had taken his hesitance for the same. They'd fallen for one of the classic romantic blunders when it couldn't have been _farther_  from the truth.

_Utter dwarflings, the both of them!_


	14. Chapter 14

Unwilling to waste any more time, he gathered the lad up in his arms and swung them to their feet. He didn't bother trying to set him down, there didn't seem to be any point as Ori was already _insatiable_. Nipping and mewling at his lips, demanding his undivided attention as his distraction sent them pinging off the walls – knocking over a stool – then a chair before his shins met the side of the bed and he dropped his prize on the mattress.

He had to hold himself back from following, separating himself from the temptation that was the lad's backside as Ori scooted, crab-like across the bed, hitting the headboard – trapped. The shadow of hesitation clouded the back of his eyes as the dwarf looked up at him nervously.

Pleasure and anticipation coiled low in his gut as unblinking brown eyes fixed on his face. He reared above him, smile just shy of predatory as Ori sprawled out across the furs, fingers bunching self-consciously in the linens, mouth opening and closing - mute.

He grinned; pleased he'd finally managed to render his scribe so utterly speechless. He tossed his furs behind him, shucking his torn tunic and undershirt in one smooth movement, leaving only his trousers as Ori made a sound – a rather suspicious sort of whine – before tugging at one of his own braids.

He'd imagined this moment a thousand times. What he would do when Ori was finally  _his._

But now?

_Mahal, he barely knew where to start!_

It wasn't until Ori reached up – all knitted gloves and inky nails - that inspiration struck; the  _beginning_ seemed as good a place as any to start.

He enjoyed the startled – if not slightly indignant - squawk when he seized the man by the collar and tugged, ripping the oversized sweater clear down the spine. The sleeves puddled around the younger dwarf - drowning him in frayed threads and ruined knitting until that too was flung behind him.

He tackled the fingerless gloves next, thick thumbs running down the length of each and every crooked finger before he tugged the next one free. He paid special attention to the lad's hands, pressing harsh, open-mouthed kisses to every ink-blot, every callous and half-healed scrape. For all his attempts to take his time, he felt emboldened to explore further when the lad's hips jerked. It was apparent that his partner found his focus all too appealing when the lad's free hand settled around the curve of his shoulder – anchoring him there like he was half afraid he'd get up and leave.

He paused after he'd stripped Ori's tunic, tongue thick in his mouth as his eyes followed the bronze-red trail of the lad's chest hair which trickled down from chest to navel and beyond, hidden by the waist of his trousers. He swallowed, hard. The lad was  _perfection_.

He eyed the laces with a predatory gleam, noting the way the eyelets seemed to be under some strain. He traced the outline of the lad's hardness with the curve of a nail, head cocking with interest as the sensitive rod twitched. Ori peeked up at him through the spaces between his fingers, lower lip pouting, caught between his teeth as he worried it incessantly.

His mouth watered. And quite suddenly, he knew what he wanted to do next.

* * *

"Lad, tell me-tell me what you want," Dwalin grunted, hand running across the curve of his cheek before he dipped down for a rough-shod kiss. It was more teeth and tongue than anything, but he liked it all the same.

"You," he said simply, arcing back into the headboard as Dwalin's lips closed on a spot just below the juncture of his neck and shoulder – sucking at it in a way that sent shivers racing through him _. Oh, that felt good._   _Ah!_

Dwalin huffed a laugh into his skin, the rasp of his beard rough but welcoming as he shook his head. "No, I mean - tell me what  _you_  like. Tell me what will please you best so I can erase the memories of the others that have had you. So you'll feel me -  _only me_ ," Dwalin rumbled fiercely, tapping his hip pointedly as the dwarf inched his pants further down his thighs, bearing him completely as his prick bobbed – throbbing and flushed. His hands fidgeted at his sides.

He couldn't help but squirm at the man's scrutiny. For, while he realized that shedding his layers was actually the point, he couldn't help but feel exposed _-_   _bare_. It didn't make it any better when he realized that Dwalin was just _staring_ , all dark eyes and a tongue that peeked out between red-bitten lips.

But as if to prove his original point, before he could think of something to say or even fully realize what the man intended to do, Dwalin's hand closed around his prick.

He mewled helplessly as the older dwarf made a fist and began stroking him properly, stripping his cock in a fierce, teasing rhythm as rational thought – if it'd ever been there in the first place - fled.

It reminded him of that night in Laketown and the furtive pleasure he'd sought in his bedroll. Only this was better,  _so much better_. Because it was  _Dwalin._ This was no dream or illusion. There was no doubt of who he was with – he could  _feel_  him - the callouses on his palm, the heady crush of Dwalin's weight bearing down from above, the interested throb of the man's hardness as it caught in the crease of his thigh.

He gasped, biting his lip as the man traced his thumb around the crown, teasing as he circled the opening once, twice, then again until a small blurt of slick started pearling along the tip.

He whimpered, barely able to watch as the sensation made him want to jerk away then slam back home again, finding himself unable to do anything else but hold on. His fingers ached as they dug deep into the linens as the man's palm tightened around him - moving in a way that had him nearly rocketing right off the bed. But far from letting up, Dwalin's free hand just worked its way between them, cupping his sack and rolling the crinkled flesh carefully as he squeezed his eyes shut, hips moving - just a few beats shy of a true rhythm.

_He'd never realized it could feel so good, that-_

"Tell me," Dwalin repeated, insistent now, as the candles on the other side of the room stuttered, casting awkward, looming shadows that seemed to reach like bony fingers across the soot-stained walls. He huddled closer, breathing in the man's scent as the bond between them flared.

He was too far gone to be embarrassed when he heard the word slip from his lips.

"I don't-I don't know. There have been no others."

"…No others?" Dwalin repeated, appearing to digest this for a moment as the fingers working around his prick slowed.

He blinked. Bits and pieces of clarity streaming back as the rhythm faltered, cock throbbing hotly in curl of the warrior's palm. And  _oh_ –  _no_ , he wanted those fingers back – thank you  _very_ much.

"Yes, no others," he added hurriedly, sitting up on his elbows as he watched a myriad of expressions chase each other across the man's face. "Just you," he clarified, hoping somewhat selfishly. that the man would return his attentions – satisfied he was his first.

Only, the admission seemed to do the exact opposite. In fact, the man looked  _stunned_. And the hand that he'd been hoping would renew its interest around his neglected prick only slackened all the more.

His cock bobbed hopefully, tip gleaming with a fresh blurt of pre-cum collected just above the flared head.

He pursed his lips. The muscles in his legs quivered – twanging indignantly as the waves of pleasure gradually tapered off – cooling the fire that had been stoked in his belly as Dwalin looked back at him like he'd just gone and clocked him with his own war hammer.

And really, that wouldn't do  _at all_.

* * *

He bit his lip salaciously, quickly coming to a decision as a dark little grin slashed across his face.  _After all, it wasn't right for Dwalin to get him all worked up and then-_

He used the man's distraction to his favor, waiting until he felt the man's hardness pressing against his arse, he squirmed back into it. Delighting in the way the man grabbed at him, lurching forward, free hand stilling his hips as the warrior's gaze darkened.

But he wasn't having  _any_  of it. Instead, he whirled around, using the man's weight against him and grinding down on his length before clambering atop him.

"Mahal, you are going to be the  _death_  of me, my  _mizim_ ," Dwalin groaned, looking up at him with an expression that could have been surprise – but considering the circumstances, he figured it was probably closer to excitement as their lengths ground against each other.

He couldn't help but answer with a moan, enjoying this new sensation and the thrill that came with it as Dwalin let him move, little by little turning the tentative jerks of his hips into a rhythm. Dwalin's head fell back against the headboard, breathing hard. The man's hands were wandering, stroking across his thighs and down his flanks only to sneak back up and make him squeak as they flicked at a nipple.

Indeed, the warrior seemed to have an extra set of hands because a moment later he was tugging at a braid, forcing him to lean down, captured his lips for a lingering –  _biting_  – kiss.

Their cocks caught against each other, a burning, almost too-hot slide as his bare prick rasped almost painfully across the straining fabric of the man's pants. But neither of them stopped – they couldn't - catching against one another again and again as his cock smeared pre-cum across the tented fabric.

"Why?" Dwalin managed, breath coming out in something suspiciously similar to a wheeze as he fisted the warrior's cock through his trousers.

"Why, what?"

"Why no others?" Dwalin asked, trapping his fingers as they made for the lacings of his pants, desperate for the last layer to be gone between them.

"I had you," he assured, forcing himself to focus as the man's expression belayed a certain sort of seriousness he'd only ever seen when they'd been five seconds away from being a spit-roast or seriously out-numbered.

"I didn't see the point in well, you know…" he trailed off, nibbling on the inside of his cheek as he ran a hand through the man's hair, smoothing it thoughtlessly, stymied when he realized that the idea of a braid in it –  _his braid_  – had never seemed more appealing.

He'd often wondered, during their journey, what it would be like to ask him permission to braid him. To set his comb in the man's hair until it was smooth and gleaming. To tie it closed with a bead of intent, the scent of braiding oils heady and thick in the air around them. He'd allowed himself to wonder, long after the fire had burned down to ember, if the man would return the favor, if he'd-

But apparently, he'd managed to say the right thing after all, because Dwalin just groaned - helpless and enamored all at once – before the bigger dwarf suddenly reared up and flipped them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference #1: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> *Mizim – jewel.


	15. Chapter 15

He had a moment to acclimate to the sudden change before Dwalin had him by the hips, pressing him into the linens as the springs of the mattress popped and groaned underneath them. Dwalin’s skin was warm against his, bare as the stark fur of the man’s chest almost overwhelmed his thin trail of ginger-red.

His heels, calloused and hard from months on the road, rubbed sinfully against soft cotton, toes tangling in the bedspread as Dwalin buried his face behind his ear, sucking a trail of thin bruises from shell to lobe. He shivered, cock twitching as a hot breath whispered down his neck. Somewhat miffed to realize that whatever protestations he’d had about being denied his makeshift throne had, of course, fled.

But before he could get used to the delights the dwarf seemed forge-bent on providing, Dwalin was pulling away again. He watched through heavy lids as Dwalin repositioned himself, letting go of a pleased little sound when his beard grated down his thigh, white-hot and stinging in a way he’d never realized could feel so good.

In fact, it was so good that he nearly missed what happened next, because seemingly between one blink and another, Dwalin’s mouth was suddenly _lowering_ , dipping down like he was about to-

He _screamed_. Letting go of a string of meaningless syllables that hung in the air above their heads long after the echoes had fled. His buried his fingers in the man’s hair as Dwalin’s mouth closed around him, tugging on the ruined curve of his ears, desperately trying to ground himself as _hot-wet-yes-too-much-more-mahal!_ hit him like a rising ocean swell.

And as if he sensed it – of _course_ he sensed it - Dwalin stilled around him, all hot, gentle suction and a tongue that was far too sneaky for its own good. It seemed like an age before he realized Dwalin was waiting. He nodded shakily, one hand pressed to his mouth as the man’s tongue flicked across the crown.

 _Oh, yes_.

Dwalin seemed to know exactly what he was doing as his mouth worked around him, plush lips stretching, spit-slick and tight as the man’s free hand wandered. Before long it was tugging on one of his braids – tweaking a nipple – running through the ginger fuzz that spanned from chest to groin.

He bit down on his fist, trying, with growing desperation, not to jerk up. Mindful of the possibility that he could very easily choke the other on his cock and- _Mahal! How he twitched at the thought!_

It was perhaps for the best however, when Dwalin got a better hold on his hips, crushing them down whenever they tried to rise. _He couldn’t help it. It was almost too much. He wanted. He needed-_

The grate of the man’s beard tickled, a rasp of off-centre pinpricks that his thick skin seemed all but made for. Dwalin pulled off with an obscene _pop_ , breathing hard. He rested his forehead against the jut of his hip for a handful of beats. Just long enough for the tension in his muscles to relax, before sucking his prick back down in one heart stopping movement.

He couldn’t help it. _He yelped_. Fingers digging into the hair on either side of the dwarf’s head with enough force that Dwalin stilled. Tongue flicking around the crown pointedly until his grip relaxed.

“Sorry,” he breathed, the word practically a hiccup as Dwalin _hrumphed_ into his skin, sucking a bruise into his inner thigh as he worked a hand lazily over his length.

“…I-I didn’t mean to, you’re just so-”

But Dwalin just snorted, pinching his belly with a huffing, half-laugh before he surged forward, gripping him by the arse and tipping his hips just so as his mouth–

When his prick rubbed up against the back of the man’s throat, he nearly _whined_.

* * *

He tumbled the lad backwards, pushing him down when the younger dwarf tried to nip up for a kiss – unwilling to get distracted as Ori’s prick bobbed, slick and red as the lad gnawed on the span of his knuckles – nearly whimpering when he pulled back, licking his lips as his attentions turned elsewhere.

He ignored the impatient question burning in the back of the youngling’s gaze and fixed him with an uneven smirk. He’d kept him on edge, poised on the brink for what seemed like _hours_. He knew Ori was desperate, keen to just give into temptation and rut into his mouth. But he had a mission of his own this night and the lad was _far_ too delicious for his own good.

He settled back on his haunches, pinning the man’s hips underneath him as he buried his fingers in the tangle of reddish-hairs that crowned his sex, thumbing his perineum until Ori was jerking up, pleading without words as a flush stole across his ruddy skin.

His eyes lingered on the spark of gold that illuminated the crossed axes on the lad’s forearm. A rumble, pleased and possessive, rose at the sight of it. _The man was his, his one, his mahamnar. As sure the sun set in the west, they were bound together now._

Bloody well about time, if you asked him.

“…Have you ever?” he asked, words coming out in pieces as his fingers arrowed ever downward, enjoying the sudden intake of breath as he brushed at the lad’s entrance – feather light and gentle. Personally, he was just grateful he could still form words at this point.

To his delight, the lad blushed, _guilty._

“Once, I-I read about it. There was this book and I was curious and when Dori was out I-” Ori stuttered, trailing off in mid-sentence in favor of peeking out between his fingers, apparently dead set on being shy at the admission despite the fact that he was arse naked  and his prick was bobbing, red and proud between them.

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as images of the lad, cocooned in the dark of his room with only a pot of oil and the fitful light of a candle as witness to his adolescent fumblings, played out behind his closed lids.

_Of course the lad had read about it – him and those damned books!_

_Mahal, he was going to have a bloody stroke._

He took pity on them both and pressed on, clearing his throat as he gentled over the man’s entrance, playing on the edge of over-sensitivity as he kept one hand on his hip – grounding and sure.

“And did you like it?”

Ori’s face scrunched up a bit, “I’ll probably like it a lot more with you,” he said diplomatically, one hand making a grab for his neglected cock before he smacked the hand away. “It felt… _odd,_ ” Ori added, pouting a bit when he just snorted.

His grin turned predatory as he brushed a thumb over the tight ring of muscle. Beard twitching at the fettered gasp that resulted. He was beautiful like this, all eager and splayed open, wanton but unsure. So eager to please his boy. So eager to learn - to experience.

_Mahal, how had he ever doubted this creature was anything but his one?_

“Aye, he rasped, voice wavering when the lad’s next wriggle lifted his hips, following the whisper of his fingers as Ori worked himself into a lather trying to decide whether he liked it or not.

“While this act _can_ be enjoyed by one, it is almost always better with a partner,” he hummed, squeezing a generous cheek as Ori just swatted at him, grinding his hips into the sheets in a clear signal to get on with it. _Greedy._

He nipped at the man’s shoulder before relenting. There would be plenty of nights where he could whet his appetites and explore – an entire lifetime of them in fact. He paused to take in the view, rasping his callouses across the small of the lad’s back like a promise unspoken. It was a prospect he found exciting to say the least.

“I promise - I’ll make it good,” he offered, cocking his head to the side as he gave the younger’s length a promising stroke. Enjoying the sounds that elicited as the dwarf’s fingers tightened around his forearm.

He waited for Ori’s nod before he dragged himself away, shucking his pants with little ceremony, too eager to make it last as he snatched up the small jug of oil that’d been left on the bedside table. He refused to acknowledge the way his fingers trembled – humming with excitement and nerves as he poured out a generous measure.

He nearly rucked the youngling’s legs right over his head in his haste, pulling him up so the lad’s arse was braced against his thighs - wanting to have a good view before he leaned down for a rough, off-angle kiss.

He thumbed a fleck beside the lad’s entrance – the final freckle in a smattering trail that dipped down from navel to arse cheek, grinning when he realized he’d been right.

The freckles really _did_ go _all_ the way down.

* * *

He started slow. Slicking the rim with lazy circles until the tension in the lad’s muscles slackened and his breaths began to slow. He couldn’t help but smirk when Ori started humming under his breath. In fact, it wasn't long before the lad was unconsciously stretching, hips matching the movement of his fingers as stuttered little _oh-oh-oh’s_ escaped from his lips unbidden.

He couldn't help but tease as he pressed the pad of his finger against the lad’s pucker, applying the barest hint of pressure before moving away again. He unstoppered the jug with his teeth and poured another dollop of oil. Unable to stop himself from flicking a few droplets across the youngling’s belly and thighs, slicking his skin to a dull-sheen that had his own cock twitching in eagerness.

Ori just glared at him, the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth as he bent nearly double trying to see. And really, he didn’t know how to feel when he realized that the man’s eagerness afforded him the _perfect_ view.

He paused, breathing in the moment only to nearly choke on it. His eyes were fixed on his one’s face when Ori gasped, back arcing, braids sprawled across the sheets when he let the barest tip of his index finger sink inside.

Because he was able to _watch_ as those wide brown eyes suddenly focused – fixing on him as the bright slick of oil caught in the candle-light - glistening across his fingers as the lad swallowed hard.

The realization and the gamut of emotions that followed was – well - _unique_. It was something different and completely _them_ in a way he’d never considered before. It was belonging and purpose, admiration, love, desire and every other half-witted, crack-pot emotion he’d only ever sneered at before. In a word, _it was Ori._

His body _hummed_ with awareness. With a familiarity that belayed the newness of the bond that sparked between them.

Underneath him, Ori _mewled_ , fisting the sheets hard enough he swore he heard the linens creak. The youngling was so responsive! Quick to respond to every brush, every whisper of pressure as his free hand came up to give the lad an encouraging stroke – palming the dribbling head as a fierce sort of pride rippled through him.

_He was going to enjoy taking his one apart._


	16. Chapter 16

They both groaned when he finally worked his finger inside, though perhaps for entirely different reasons. Ori's face was screwed up, puckered with an uncertain frown as he stilled completely. Meanwhile, he was stuck imagining how the lad would feel around his cock – even around his finger Ori was a vice grip.

_Mahal, he was going to have to take his time if he was ever going to fit._

"Relax," he grunted, running a hand down the lad's flank, soothing as Ori breathed out – high and thready through his nose. "You've gotta let me in, lad."

It took a handful of beats and some pointed curls around Ori's cock. But eventually the strangle-hold around his finger lessened, allowing him to stroke the youngling from the inside - slow and gentle – until he was all but _melting_  underneath him.

"There you go…" he hummed, swallowing the lad's surprised cry when he twisted the digit, pulling it out until just the tip remained, before sliding it right back in again. Ori just bit at his lips, cock rubbing wetly across their bellies as the kiss turned sloppy.

"Look at you…" he praised, nearly swallowing his tongue as the lad's pucker opened hungrily, flexing around his fingers and trying to draw him back in every time he made to retreat. "So good, azyungel."

And, judging by the ringing in his ears when he found the lad's sweet spot, everyone else in the entire god forsaken mountain knew all about it the exact same moment he did.

_Ulganel! The lad had quite the set of lung on him!_

* * *

His thoughts spaced out and grew precious when Dwalin slipped a second finger inside him. All rounded knuckles and curving joints as –  _at last_  – the man began to move. The rhythm felt earthy and sure. Like the set of his bone – the rareness of mithril.

His mouth opened, caught in the grips of a voiceless shout as he panted, fingers digging into the curve of Dwalin's knee as his fingers worked in and out. It was so different from his youthful fumblings, in fact, it didn't even compare. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. It felt like-

He struggled against the urge to lose himself to the feeling. Forcing himself to stay aware, to keep his eyes open. Allowing himself to watch as sweat started beading across Dwalin's brow, taking in the moment in all its shades as the man's prick, heavy and purpled with the strain, rubbed against his own.

_He wanted to remember everything. He wanted-_

He let go of a desperate cry when the fingers inside him crooked, brushing that spot inside him again – the one that made the world fuzz out at the edges. The one he certainly hadn't found in his initial explorations as a tween as Dwalin grunted out a laugh somewhere above him.

_Mahal!_

"That's better," Dwalin rumbled, approving. "I could practically  _hear_  you thinking," he chuckled, pressing a finger against the spot – milking it with a certain teasing pressure that had his hips working, bearing down on the man's fingers every time Dwalin made to pull them out.

"Relax kurdel, I'm  _never_  going to be done with you."

* * *

"Ori,  _Mahal_ , you feel so-"

He was nearly shaking by the time he slicked himself up. He couldn't help but groan as he slid inside the man's tight heat, choking on the bit of air still left in his lungs as Ori's hole fluttered, giving him a moment of resistance before yielding. He had to stop before little more than the _tip_  was inside, fisting the man's hips with a force he'd probably regret later as Ori gripped him – all velvet soft and white heat and-

_He wasn't going to last._

He eased in slowly, curbing the agonizing urge to sheath himself completely. All too aware of the stuttered cadence of Ori's breathing and the harsh mewls that were escaping his tightly closed lips as the dwarf tensed underneath him – tighter than a bow string and ready to snap as a thin trickle of red pearled across his bottom lip.

He gentled a hand down the youngling's flank, thumbing through the sweat that'd collected in the dip of his navel as he waited for the lad to get used to him.

"Ori? Are you- are you-"

There was a long beat and then another before Ori moaned, wordless, turning so that his face was safely hidden in the sheets he had a death grip on. But the flexing of the lad's hips and the subtle push upwards told him all he needed to know.

_More._

He actually _felt_  the moment when everything clicked into place, when he angled his hips deep and caught the tail-edge of the man's sweet spot. He bit off a curse when Ori arched, yowling like a tom cat in heat, toes digging into his arm pits, eyes bright and dilated as small fingers tangled fitfully in his beard – yanking him down until they were nearly eye level.

"Again…"

So, he did.

Before long they were moving together, pegging that same spot over and over until the lad was trembling and sweet underneath him, until even  _words_  seemed lost to him. His one was reduced to moans and whimpers as fingers slicked down his chest, his forearms and thighs, digging in and firming until he could feel the ache.

He was too distracted to notice when the tension in the lad's muscles changed, flexing under the skin a second before Ori surged up and the world suddenly went arse over teapot. He blinked, finding himself flat on his back across the mattress. Ori's smug expression was only inches from his face as the youngling settled atop him, sucking his lower lip between his teeth before he leaned back and-

_Mahal's bloody hammer!_

He gripped the lad by the hips to still him, head tossed back and sightless as Ori sunk down on his cock with barely a hitch in their previous rhythm. Ori's thighs were trembling as he lifted himself up, clearly testing out the angle as he rocked back and forth, letting go of a pleased sound when he found the new perch to his liking.

He nearly gnawed a hole through his cheek when Ori had the gall to smirk down at him, looking so gods damned triumphant he couldn't help but let him have his moment.

Indeed, the sight of the dwarf practically preening while  _spit-roasted_ on his cock was a sight he wouldn't soon forgot. Still, call it a weakness, but he found himself unable to help it when his hips jerked, treasuring the sweet sound of his one's surprise as a rumbling purr rattled up in response.

But then Ori was moving again and suddenly he was growling. The hand he wrapped around the man's prick was tight and uncompromising, determined that his one would come  _with_ him as he worked the fluid weeping from the tip flush across his length.

Ori looked almost  _feral_  as he moved atop him, chasing his own pleasure so beautifully, so  _fully_ , he could have wept from it. In fact, he swore he could nearly come from the sight alone.

_His._

_His one._

And as if the Valar themselves had heard his claim, warmth puddled deep in his belly, heavy and swirling before he recognized it for what it was.

"Ori,  _Ori_ , I'm not going to last. I'm, ah–  _fuck!_ "

* * *

He cried out at the loss when Dwalin's hips stuttered, pressing up with bruising force as the older man groaned. He arched, watching Dwalin's expression twist into a rictus of pleasure and over sensitivity as the man found his end – blunt nails sinking deep as he clenched around him.

There was a pulse of warmth inside him, barely discernible from the myriad of sensations – the  _yes-more-too much-not enough-hot-pain-pleasure_. But his prick jerked in response, every nerve ending alive with the realization as the man wilted across his back.

He bit his lip, squirming backwards, prick throbbing.

But he needn't have worried. Because the thick paw that was wrapped around him stroked once, then twice before his cock pulsed, spurting between them as he cried out, soaking across Dwalin's fist as he lost himself to the sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference #1: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> * "azyungel" – "love" or "love of loves"
> 
> * "ulganel" – "god of all gods"
> 
> * "kurdel" – "heart of all hearts"


	17. Chapter 17

Sometime later, amidst a sea of broken furniture and shreds of clothing torn and stretched beyond repair, he couldn't help but laugh. "Valar save us, we have been so  _stupid_."

Dwalin snorted into the jut of his collarbone, nosing one of the bites he'd made a few hours previous. Content to let the silence speak for him as thick fingers tangled in the scruff of his beard, scratching through downy-red until he felt as boneless as when Dwalin had used his tongue to-

He strangled a laugh into the man's armpit as a whisper of a thought registered. "Oh gods,  _Nori_ , I thought you and him were-"

"Ech! What a mess. I was barely paying attention to what he was saying then,  _bleck_!" Dwalin grunted, moving around until he was flat on his back once more, mindless of the chill as he pulled him up – arranging him so he was now splayed across his chest with barely a ripple of protest.

"You can believe I'll be having a talk with him later," Dwalin added, tangling their fingers together before he paused - tone noticeably lacking in its usual heat as he distracted the older man with a kiss.

He hummed, pleased, as warm skin met warm skin, wriggling against the older dwarf almost languidly as their shared amusement aired out into the hush.

"You might want to buy him a drink while you're at it. He's probably going to need one of Oin's draughts if he ever wants to sleep soundly again," he giggled, stretching, toe hooking on a bit of tattered knitting – one of his fingerless gloves – idly.

He reached out, shin gliding across one of Dwalin's furs, enjoying the smoothness of the tanned leather and the silky feel of the wolf-hair before the implication of the feeling actually registered.

His cheeks heated when he realized they were surrounded by the evidence of their coupling. A few rickety old chairs and a dresser that had survived Smaug were now in various pieces, strewn around the room in a way he knew they'd hear about later. Their clothing however, was another matter entirely. He didn't see a single article that hadn't been made indecent in their haste to see each other. He blinked a bit when bleary eyes took in the cracked set of drawers on the other side of the room.

_Huh, he didn't quite remember how they'd managed that…_

"Oy, look at you go on," Dwalin rasped, good humor evident as he stroked a generous hand down his flank, soothing and sure. "I seem to remember a certain hobbit practically climbing up the length of you to plaster one on 'yer cheek."

He started as he remembered, touching the curve of his jaw reflectively. "Goodness how strange that was," he piped up.

"Too smooth! It was like getting a kiss from a  _babe_ ," he remarked with a shudder. Bilbo was a dear friend, but he had not even a hint of stubble on him. It had probably been the most disconcerting thing of the lot, if he were being honest. Even a day old dwarfling had more hair on their cheeks!

"Then don't think on it," Dwalin grunted, not without a small measure of jealousy as he grabbed a handful of hip and pinched.

"And what? You're a completely unbiased third party?" he teased, enjoying the slow grind as their hips slotted together almost leisurely - lazy and slow like honey drizzling off a wooden spoon. The air around their heads was warm, almost humid, as they breathed in time.

"Whatever you like, so long as meddlesome Hobbits and thieving older brothers stay out of it," Dwalin insisted, nipping at his bottom lip, inadvertently catching on a split and causing a small zing of pain to shiver through him. He licked at the fresh blood unrepentantly, taking it as his due when Dwalin's gaze darkened, unable to stop the grin as an interested rumble issued from the elder's throat.

Still, he just hummed, stretching, the moment luxurious and keen, feeling the throb of the man's prick stirring against his belly as Dwalin's tongue darted out to soothe the sting. He wiggled around a bit, just to hear him moan, huffing a breath across the curve of a ruined ear as Dwalin's hand dipped down between them.

But before it could go any further, they were interrupted by a loud rustling from just outside the door. He cocked his head, listening, keen hearing able to pick up the individual sounds of whispered conversation. Even the muted  _click-click-click_ of gaming dice could be heard a little further up the hall.

_Oh, for Mahal's sake!_

He groaned, letting his head thump across Dwalin's chest as a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bofur's remarked on something to do with: 'dwarvish stamina' and 'refreshing the bed linens.'

He buried his face deep into the man's beard, trying to block out the sound.  _Their concern would have been warming if it hadn't been so gods damned annoying!_

"How long do you think they've been out there?" he asked, half afraid of the answer as embarrassment flushed down the curve of his spine.

"Pretty sure they've been taking shifts," Dwalin returned, sounding remarkably unaffected until Oin rumbled something about sneaking another jar of oil under the door – just in case.

"…Busybodies," Dwalin snorted, looking vaguely horrified as they realized the  _oh-so- convenient_  scattering of oils and heating salves they'd stumbled across in the hours previous had been  _anything_  but random.

"They planned this," he remarked belatedly, words plaintive as he rubbed his face into Dwalin's chest, a stubby finger-tip tracing across the runes etched in ink across the man's stomach before dipping back up to palm his mark. He sighed happily as a burble of warmth surged up from the bond, the act in itself calming.

"Wanna give 'em something to  _really_  gossip about?" Dwalin asked, brow wriggling suggestively as he smothered a laugh in the tuft of hair that crowned the warrior's chest. He let out a strangled hiccup when the laugh quickly turned into a gasp as Dwalin flicked his nipples, tugging on the sore little nubs as the sounds from the other side of the door cut-off in mid-word.

"We'll have to think of some way to get back at them for this," Dwalin added, arching a bit as he scratched his nails down the man's chest, enjoying the sounds as the older dwarf practically _purred_.

"Their meddling  _was_  for the greater good," he reminded, yawning, happy and sated as the rise and fall of Dwalin's chest him lulled him into that delightful place that existed somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

"It's more about pride than anything else, azyungel," Dwalin answered, looking thoughtful despite heavy lids and the heady glow of the marks he'd scratched deep into his lover's skin just a few hours earlier.

He ran his hand along the edge of a particularly painful looking furrow, grinning to himself as he inspected his handy work.  _Perhaps they would have use for some of Oin's healing poultices after all._

For a long time, they simply enjoyed the silence, dozing quietly. He let his hand curl in the man's beard, tugging him down for a kiss that tasted far sweeter than it should have considering where both their mouths had been the last few hours.

He considered the matter with some seriousness when the unmistakable sound of Kili whining, something about ear muffs and mental scarring floated in through the crack in the door.  _Perhaps Dwalin was right after all. What was a little revenge if it was for the greater good?_

"Thorin still has his arm in that sling, right?"

"Aye, and will for some time if Oin has anything to say about it. He broke it in at least six places trying to strangle that-"

He pressed a finger to his lover's lips, smirking as he shifted, moving so he was sitting astride the taller man before he continued.

"So, personal grooming, things like washing his hair and doing his braids might be…ah, difficult?" he asked slyly, the entire plan coming together in his mind's eye in delightfully crisp vision.

_Bilbo wasn't going to know what hit him when Thorin got through with him. No one had been blind to the looks that had been exchanged between the two since the Carrock. The others wouldn't need much convincing. Not with things between him and Dwalin having finally been settled._

Dwalin raised a brow, hands running up and down his thighs, rubbing spirals across the bruises. "What are you scheming, mizimel?

He leaned down, whispering.

"You want Bilbo to do  _what_!?"

"Shh! Don't spoil it!" he hissed. "Just think about…" he continued, nosing a temple sweetly and murmuring in his one's ear until Dwalin's confused expression gradually morphed into a disturbingly toothy grin.

"Aye, I think that can be arranged."

* * *

And if Bilbo found himself with a tray of combs and courting beads, knocking hesitantly on the door to Thorin's chambers three nights later, they had it on good authority (from the Royal Spymaster, who not so coincidentally owed them both a favor) that Thorin had taken one look at the hobbit and had seized him by the collar. Pulling him in for a heated, if not completely  _unkingly_  kiss that sent the tray flying and them staggering back into the dwarf's rooms and out of sight.

Life, as it was, only got sweeter after that.

Bilbo left Thorin's chambers with beads of intent braided into his curly hair and Thorin strutted around the mountain with a braid of his own – looking for all the world like a peacock with brand new feathers, mithril beads  _click-clacking_  every other step.

* * *

He and Dwalin tied their marriage braids amongst the stones, blushing as the cheers of both family and friends echoed through the very mountain itself. Filling the great halls with the sounds of light and laughter as their wedding feast lasted a full day and night – with toasts to the happy couple continuing long after Dwalin had thrown him over his shoulder and carried him off to their chambers. Taking it as their due to start their union on a high note.

Thorin courted Bilbo for, _well_ , not as long as the silver-beards would have deemed proper, before he tossed tradition to the wind and named Bilbo "Consort under the Mountain" – marrying in a ceremony that ended up being attended by thousands – dwarves, men, and yes, even elves. Thranduil had made an appearance, sporting a new crown and a surprisingly indulgent look as he watched his son get glared at by Gimli for close to half the ceremony.

And while no one was entirely sure what  _that_ was all about, the gossip was that Gimli, young as he was, had taken issue with the Prince's insult of his mother's portrait and – with all the cheek of a dwarfling not yet grown - demanded a full apology. Legolas had been quick to give it and soon found himself invited over for dinner that very evening. Gloin had been less than impressed about having an elf as a house guest but eventually caved for the sake of his son who seemed rather taken with one of Mirkwood's finest.

A few months after the royal ceremony, half the original company, himself and Dwalin included, found themselves on the road again. Only this time, they were traveling to the Shire – helping Bilbo pack up his belongings and settle his accounts in Hobbiton before returning to the Lonely Mountain.

It was decided, (not without some argument) that every third year the royal couple would spend spring to fall in the Shire, leaving Fili and Kili to handle the affairs of state with Balin as their chief advisor. Bilbo was quick to appoint the Gamgee's as caretakers of his estate, gifting them with a handsome sum for their troubles and assurances that if Bilbo were to ever give up Bag End, there was already a stipulation in place that they would be forever employed in its upkeep and holdings, should they wish it.

It'd taken some convincing, but eventually Thorin had decided such a tri-yearly venture would be good practice for his nephews when they ruled. Bilbo, for his part, just wanted time in his beloved Shire, surround by the green. And to his credit, the hobbit eventually taught Thorin the joys of casting off his kingly titles and relaxing for a spell. In time, the dwarf even grew to crave the time they spent away from Erebor, alone in each other's company, with an enthusiasm that matched his hobbit whenever spring inevitably made its appearance.

And while Thorin may have _killed_  more plants than he'd saved helping his husband weed the gardens, Bilbo was sure to say nothing.

Privately, he had his suspicions it was more the fact that helping Bilbo muck through the dirt during high summer was one of the few times Thorin actually shed his layers. Known to strip down to just a thin tunic and bare skin (much to the delight of his husband), rather than endless patience Bilbo seemed to possess when it came to the dwarf who was happily massacring his mother's prized marigolds and petunias.

He and Dwalin continued on as they ever did, happy and blissful until the day – in the far, far distant future - when Mahal called them home. They entered the Halls of Durin hand in hand, greeting both old friends and new, feasting in honor of those that would follow them. Content to wait until the entire company found their way to the halls of their forefathers before they considered their last great adventure complete.

_Apparently the Valar knew what they were doing after all._

_Imagine that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N #1: Thank you for reading. This story is now complete. - I have two or three ideas for future fics regarding this pair so expect more dwori and wingman!bagginsheild sooner rather than later! I adore this fandom!
> 
> Reference #1: (translations come from google, the small amount of dwarvish vocabulary that exists, the movies, and books.)
> 
> *"Azyungel" – "love" "love of loves"
> 
> *"Mizimel" – "the jewel of all jewels"


End file.
